Or you, or you, grey lumps of stone, which feel no misery—
I pray you make me as these, dear God, since better may not be!
VI
TO A WOMAN SPINNING
How poor thou art, and yet thou art not poor.
Oh peaceful spinner!
Ragged and barefoot, sitting at thy door,
Thou art the winner!
Thine eyes are placid, as to-day the sea,
Thrice happy spinner!
Content on her best cates hath nourished thee,