Long hours for little gain.
Anon a spectral shop-girl creeping back
To her dull garret-home through the chill night,
Bowed, heart-sick, spirit-crushed, poor ill-paid hack
Of harsh commercial might!
These I beheld, the world's sad woman-throng,
Work-ridden vassals of its Mammon-god,
Their destiny to creep and drudge along,
And kiss grief's chastening rod.
And then I saw a spirit surface-fair,