Growing dark-browed in rebellion, the wheels that spun the cloth she erstwhile wove.
Served machines in mills and factories.
Then saw her children serve; the girl-child, tender, soft;
And the small boy who should have played in freedom with his kind.
And when she saw herself who once had clothed the world in dignity
Turned slave to whirring wheels, to harsh, unsympathetic steel and iron,
When the soft children of her mortal agony were murdered inch by inch and year by year
Before her eyes—when the Woman, bereft, defeated,
Or brooding at her task saw this,
No longer lay her mind asleep. No longer dreamed she