The Drudge

        Repose upon her soulless face,
            Dig the grave and leave her;
        But breathe a prayer that, in his grace,
        He who so loved this toiling race
            To endless rest receive her.

        Oh, can it be the gates ajar
            Wait not her humble quest,
        Whose life was but a patient war
        Against the death that stalked from far
            With neither haste nor rest;

        To whom were sun and moon and cloud,
            The streamlet's pebbly coil,
        The transient, May-bound, feathered crowd,
        The storm's frank fury, thunder-browed,
            But witness of her toil;

        Whose weary feet knew not the bliss
            Of dance by jocund reed;
        Who never dallied at a kiss!
        If heaven refuses her, life is
            A tragedy indeed!