Slowly the toil-cramped, gnarled old fist
Wrought at the sheet with a rasping pen;
Halted with tremulous quirk and twist,
Staggered, and then went on again.
The wan sun peeped through the wee patched
pane
And checkered the floor where the pale
beams shone
In a quaint old kitchen up in Maine,
With an old man writing there alone.