The Song of the Old Mother

    Till the seed of the fire flicker and glow；

    And then I must scrub and bake and sweep

    Till stars are beginning to blink and peep；

    And the young lie long and dream in their bed

    Of the matching of ribbons for bosom and head，

    And their day goes over in idleness，

    And they sigh if the wind but lift a tress：

    While I must work because I am old，

    And the seed of the fire gets feeble and cold.