On "The Prospects of Trade,"
or "The Irish Question,"
or "Why are Wages so Low?"—
The printers are waiting for copy now,
I've had my next week's screw,
There'll be nothing more till I've written something,
Oh, God! what am I to do?
If I could only write!
The paper glares up white
Like the cursed white of the heavy stone
Under which she lies alone;
And the ink is black like death,