The long, mud-cumbered, cold, accustomed way,
For the great Shop is shuttered close to-day,
And you awhile are free!"
Free? With a chain of iron upon my heart,
That drags me down, and makes the salt tears start!
Oh, that inexorable weariness
That through the enfeebled flesh lays crushing stress
On the young spirit! Young? There is no youth
For such as I. It dies, in very truth,
At the first touch of the taskmaster's hand.