For My Part, Getting Up

With Fingers Weary And Worn, With Eyelids Heavy And Red, A Woman Sat In Unwomanly Rags, Plying Her Needle And Thread.

There Is Not A String Attuned To Mirth But Has Its Chord Of Melancholy.

When Was Ever Honey Made With One Bee In A Hive?

Comfort And Indolence Are Cronies.

Pity It Is To Slay The Meanest Thing.