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Labor Day Poem

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The Toiler

Nay, let me play a while ere day grows late.
So brief the sunlight and this task so great,

What wonder that I yearn to drop the strand
And mar the pattern with a ruthless hand

Of this I weave, and, in the weaving, hate!
What profits it if, long compelled to wait,

At twilight by the finished work I stand
Too weary for that gipsying I planned?

Nay, let me play a while ere day grows late.
My truant comrades call without the gate,
"Ah, little sister, throw a jest at fate,

And laugh, and join us." All the spring-thrilled land
Lures me with sweet insistence and command.

Taskmistress Life, be once compassionate,
Nay, let me play a while ere day grows late.
Publisher :- Theodosia Garrison
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