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Labor Day Poem

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The Little Textile Worker

You may find him in the East and in the South,
This small child slave. His little eyes
Look out aweary on the world. His little mouth
Is hard and old, in babyhood; his shoulders droop.
But skinny hands fly at the broken threads,
Tie up the knot, undo the tangled loop
Unerringly, with quick, machine-like skill.
Quick-witted hands. Only they may live. The baby promise
Of all other human faculties the great machines soon kill.
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