Barefoot she goes about her endless task, Her life a daily crucifixion. Pain Has grown so common she does not complain, But on her face is stamped its awful mask. Flat-breasted, stooped, with hair like grass sun-dried, She keeps the house, cuts wood, and hoes the corn. One child a year, and sometimes two are born, And always there's another in her side. Yet to her leaden eyes when twilight comes, And ragged mites are trooping through the door; When dusty feet are thumping on the floor, And the poor place with shout and clamor hums, There leaps a light which nowhere else is seen. A light that's shared by cotter and by queen. |