The sun is bright and glad, but not for me;
My heart is dead to all but pain and sorrow;
No care nor hope have I in all I see,
Save from the fear that I may starve to-morrow.
Alas, for you, poor famishing, patient wife,
And pale-faced little ones! Your feeble cries
Torture my soul; worse than a blank is life
Beggared of all that makes that life a prize:
Yet one thing cheers me,--is not life the door
To that rich world where no one can be poor?