Work! work! work! my labour never flags;
And what’s it all for? a mortar board, a gown to be torn in rags;
This shattered health, a head growing bald prematurely, at end of my name
To write M.A., for one brief day, in the papers to win some fame.
“Work! work! work! from weary chime to chime,
And work! work! work! as prisoners work for crime—
Philosophy, logic, and math., mathematics, and logic, and phil.,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, and I have to take a pill.
“Work! work! work! in the dull December light;
And work! work! work! when the weather is warm and bright;