The sun smiles down upon her distress
With a tyrant smile most pitiless,
As she stitches away in her tatter'd dress,
With a song on her lips, that sinks in a sigh.
Yet, scorning her dusty window pane,
For all his pride, in love he is fain
Soft gold on her golden hair to rain;
But no sunlight may soften that soulless stare.
I read her yearning and weary sigh,
And the eyes that would be, but are not, dry;
And I catch the voice of that voiceless cry
For a moment to rest, for a moment to weep.
She, the darling of Want and Woe,
Why was she sent, save to work and to go
With feet that will ever more weary grow?
Whither? she has not a moment to care!
The Undine of olden days, I read,
By the love of a soul from her trammels was freed:
Knows there another such dolorous need?
Sure on the earth lingers yet such a soul!