Poverty
The city woke. Down the long market-place
Her sad eyes wandered, but no tears they shed.
In her bare home a little child lay dead;
Yet she was here, with white, impassive face,
And hands that had no beauty and no grace,
Selling her small wares for a bit of bread!
Since they who live must eat though sore bestead
What time had she to weep—what breathing space?
Poor even in words, she had no fitting phrase
Wherein to tell the story of her dole,
But stood, like Niobe, a thing of stone,
Or mutely went on her accustomed ways,
Or counted her small gains, while her dumb soul,
Shut in with grief, could only make its moan!