Till her hands trembled, and her eyes grew dim!
Till from those weary hands her work would fall,
And her dim vision could distinguish nought
Save the black spiders crawling on the wall,
And the dead violets she herself had bought
With the few coppers she had stored away
From her poor scanty earnings day by day.
For when before the market-stall she stood,
Her little purse clasped tightly in her hand,
She needs must purchase—for each dewy bud