The Sunrise of the Poor

A darkened hut outlined against the sky, A forward-looking slope,—some cedar trees, Gaunt grasses stirred by the awaking breeze, And nearer, where the grayer shadows lie, Within a small paled square, one may descry The beds wherein the Poor first taste of ease, Where dewy rose-vines drop their spicy lees Above the dreamless ashes, silently. A lonely woman leans there,—bent and gray: Outlined in part against the shadowed hill, In part against the sky, in which the day Begins to blaze. O earth, so sweet,—so still!— The woman sighs, and draws a long, deep breath: It is the call to labor,—not to death.