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Daughter of brawn, with weary face,
Rough cap in the arching stone,
The home she holds in its proper place,
Sad slave of sinew and bone.


Never did nerves know how to strain
Till toil to babes gave birth,
Till rounded breasts were racked with pain
And youth was bent to earth.


Daughter of brawn, with callous hands,
She knows no happy hour,
The weary years, with running sands,
Drag out her bridal dower.


Grind on, O slave of the sunken!
While the rich are hot with wine:
The sons of men are drunken--
God's justice is divine.