Throb, throb, throb, weariness, ache, and pain!
One's heart and one's eyes on fire,
And never a spark in one's brain.
The stupid paper and ink,
That might be turned into gold,
Lie here unused
Since one's brain refused
To do its tricks—as of old.
One can suffer still, indeed,
But one cannot think any more.
There's no fire in the grate,
No food on the plate,
And the East-wind shrieks through the door.
The sunshine grins in the street:
It used to cheer me like wine,
Now it only quickens my brain's sick beat;
And the children are crying for bread to eat
And I cannot write a line!
Molly, my pet—don't cry,
Father can't write if you do—
And anyhow, if you only knew,
It's hard enough as it is.
There, give old daddy a kiss,
And cuddle down on the floor;
We'll have some dinner by-and-by.
Now, fool, try! Try once more!
Hold your head tight in your hands,
Bring your will to bear!
The children are starving—your little ones—
While you sit fooling there.
Beth, with her golden hair;
Moll, with her rough, brown head—
Here they are—see!
Against your knee,
Waiting there to be fed!—
I cannot bear their eyes.
Their soft little kisses burn—
They will cry again
In vain, in vain,
For the food that I cannot earn.