God's curse is curse enough.
To-morrow she will say a bitter thing,
Pulling her sleeve down lest the bruises show--
A bitter thing, but meant for an excuse--
'My master is not worse than many men:'
But now, ay, now she sitteth dumb and still;
No food, no comfort, cold and poverty
Bearing her down.
My heart is sore for her;
How long, how long? When troubles come of God,
When men are frozen out of work, when wives
Are sick, when working fathers fail and die,
When boats go down at sea--then nought behoves
Like patience; but for troubles wrought of men
Patience is hard--I tell you it is hard.
"O thou poor soul! it is the night--the night;
Against thy door drifts up the silent snow,
Blocking thy threshold: 'Fall' thou sayest, 'fall, fall
Cold snow, and lie and be trod underfoot.
Am not I fallen? wake up and pipe, O wind,
Dull wind, and heat and bluster at my door:
Merciful wind, sing me a hoarse rough song,
For there is other music made to-night
That I would fain not hear. Wake, thou still sea,
Heavily plunge. Shoot on, white waterfall.
O, I could long like thy cold icicles
Freeze, freeze, and hang upon the frosty clift
And not complain, so I might melt at last
In the warm summer sun, as thou wilt do!
"'But woe is me! I think there is no sun;
My sun is sunken, and the night grows dark:
None care for me.
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