His nose was pressed to the grindstone--
His shoulders bent to the wheel,
One of the numbered millions
That bore no right to feel.
Child of a callous calling--
Waif of a wilful day;
I heard him murmur beneath his breath--
“Tuck away--little dreams--tuck away.”
The loom and lathe and ledger--
Pencil and square and drill--
They saw his pain and they laughed again
As hardened headsmen will.
While ’neath their chains and chiding,
Through the gloom of the endless day,
I heard him murmur beneath his breath--
“Tuck away--little dreams--tuck away.”
I saw him going down the hill--
I saw him pause, and start,
And bend again to the grinding grain--
Lord of a broken heart.
The sunset shadows lengthened--
The earth was turning gray,
As I caught the breath of the living death--
“Tuck away--little dreams--tuck away.”