And, even when, day after day,
I bore the big reed-baskets, laden
With wet clay, digged beyond the Western moat,
Although I seemed to tread,
As treads the ox that turns the water-wheel,
A blindfold round of servitude,
My quenchless vision ever burned before me:
And when, in after days, I fed
The roaring oven-furnaces;
And toiled by them through sweltering days,