And through the blinking of the morn,
On every side rose womankind
To move his pity—raise his scorn:
One mocked her shame, one pressed along
On some untimely taskwork bound;
One charmed the night with siren song;
One woke the day with plaintive sound.
Here fragile forms Sir Self passed by
At toils which lordly man disdains;
There rose some patient, piteous cry,