ALWAYS
FINISH
Anonymous
If a task is once begun,
Never leave it till it's done.
Be the labor great or small,
Do it well or not at all.
The Factory
Girl
By Walter
V. Holloway
When the
trembling East is beginning to blush
With the rosy
red of morn,
And the World
holds her breath in a solemn hush
As another day
is born.
I am startled
from sleep's illusive dreams
By the factory
whistle's imperious screams,
Which seem but
an echo of yesterday --
So soon has the
short night passed away.
A child
was I in my beautiful dream,
In my old home
far away,
Where I strayed
on the banks of a laughing stream,
Through the
slumb'rous summer day,
And gathered the
flowers that blossomed there,
With never a
thought of work or care.
While the birds
above in the murmuring trees
Poured their
joyous songs on the perfumed breeze.
Why is
it, I ask, that the birds are free
To flit over
vale and hill,
While I a
life-long slave must be
In a noisy,
squalid mill?
Does God love
the birds, and hate me so
That He fills my
life with work and woe?
Or can it be
that there is no God,
Save the factory
master's cruel rod?
But
God, or no God, I must be in my place,
When the
heartless wheels begin
To turn the
machine in its tireless race,
More wealth for
its lord to win.
From my hurrying
hands, with a fiendish roar,
It snatches its
food and shouts for more --
"More food,
more food, for my sateless maw;
More gold, more
gold, is my master's law."
No
matter how weary my arms may grow,
No matter how
numb with pain,
If I slacken my
pace the machine seems to know,
And shrieks in
its wrath again:
"More food,
more food, for my sateless maw;
More gold, more
gold, is any master's law."
Till the soul of
the ghoulish machine, to me,
Seems to laugh
at my helpless misery.
All day
the demon laughs and leers.
Till my heart
grows sick with fright;
And ever the
taunt rings in my ears --
"I will
have your soul to-night;
For my Soul and
the master's soul are one,
And I'll come
for your soul when the day is done.
More food, more
food, for my sateless maw;
More gold, more
gold, is my master's law."
Berkeley,
Calif.
I HEAR AMERICA
SINGING
Walt Whitman
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the
steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The woodcutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or at noon
intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the
girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day-at night the party of young fellows, robust,
friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
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.
IT COULDN'T BE DONE
Edgar Guest
Somebody said it couldn't be done,
But he with a chuckle replied
That "maybe it couldn't," but he would be one
Who wouldn't say so till he'd tried.
So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
On his face. If he worried he hid it.
He started to sing and he tackled the thing
That couldn't be done, and he did it.
Somebody scoffed: "Oh, you'll never do that;
At least no one has ever done it";
But he took off his coat and he took of his hat,
And the first thing we knew he'd begun it.
With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
Without any doubting or quiddit,
He started to sing and he tackled the thing
That couldn't be done, and he did it.
There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
There are thousands to prophesy failure;
There are thousands to point out to you, one by one,
The dangers that wait to assailyou.
But just buckle in with a bit of a girn,
Just take off your coat and go to it;
Just start to sing as you tackle the thing
That "cannot be done," and you'll do it.
The Toiler
By
Theodosia Garrison
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.
PSALM OF THOSE WHO GO
FORTH BEFORE DAYLIGHT
Carl Sandburg
The policeman buys shoes slow and careful; the teamster buys gloves slow and
careful; they take care of their feet and hands; they live on their feet and
hands.
The milkman never argues; he works alone and no one speaks to him; the city is
asleep when he is on the job; he puts a bottle on six hundred porches and calls
it a day's work; he climbs two hundred wooden stairways; two horses are company
for him; he never argues.
The rolling-mill men and the sheet-steel men are brothers of cinders; they empty
cinders out of their shoes after the day's work; they ask their wives to fix
burnt holes in the knees of their trousers; their necks and ears are covered
with a smut; they scour their necks and ears; they are brothers of cinders.
The
Factories
By Margaret
Widdemer
I have shut my
little sister in from life and light
(For a rose, for
a ribbon, for a wreath across my hair),
I have made her
restless feet still until the night,
Locked from
sweets of summer and from wild spring air;
I who ranged the
meadow lands, free from sun to sun,
Free to sing and
pull the buds and watch the far wings fly,
I have bound my
sister till her playing-time is done --
Oh, my little
sister, was it I? -- was it I?
I have
robbed my sister of her day of maidenhood
(For a robe, for
a feather, for a trinket's restless spark),
Shut from Love
till dusk shall fall, how shall she know good,
How shall she
pass scatheless through the sinlit dark?
I who could be
innocent, I who could be gay,
I who could have
love and mirth before the light went by,
I have put my
sister in her mating-time away --
Sister, my young
sister, -- was it I? -- was it I?
I have
robbed my sister of the lips against her breast
(For a coin, for
the weaving of my children's lace and lawn),
Feet that pace
beside the loom, hands that cannot rest,
How can she know
motherhood, whose strength is gone?
I who took no
heed of her, starved and labor-worn,
I against whose
placid heart my sleepy gold heads lie,
Round my path
they cry to me, little souls unborn,
God of Life
-- Creator! It was I! It was I!
SONNET XIX: ON HIS
BLINDNESS
John Milton
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask; But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."
THEY EARNED THE RIGHT
Edgar A. Guest
I knew Ket and Knudsen, Zeller, Zeder and Breer.
I knew Henry Ford back yonder as a lightplant engineer.
I'm a knew-'em-when companion who frequently recalls
That none of the those big brothers were too proud for overalls.
All the Fishers, all the leaders, all the motion pioneers
Worked at molds or lathes or benches at the start of their careers.
Chrysler, Keller, Nash and others whom I could but now won't name
Had no high-falutin' notion ease and softness led to fame.
They had work to do and did it. Did it bravely, did it right,
Never thinking it important that their collars should be white.
Never counted hours of labor, never wished their tasks to cease,
And for years their two companions were those brothers, dirt and grease.
Boy, this verse is fact, not fiction, all the fellows I have named
Worked for years for wages and were never once ashamed.
Dirt and grease were their companions, better friends than linen white;
Better friends than ease and softness, golf or dancing every night.
Now in evening clothes you see them in the nation's banquet halls.
But they earned the right to be there, years ago, in overalls.
THE VILLAGE
BLACKSMITH
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,---rejoicing,---sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and though
The Song of
the Working Children
By George
W. Priest
Grant us but
rest, to hide our haggard faces;
The brute evicts
our souls for daily bread --
We children of
the drear and noisome places,
Of joy and
beauty disinherited.
This
cruel Nation has worn out, defaced us
Ere childhood's
happy playtime should have sped;
As well had
fate, with careless blindness, placed us
With savage and
benighted tribe instead.
We
watch the somber garments, higher growing,
And dream of
silk's and satin's wondrous sheen:
Weary we make
our exits, many knowing,
But fewer caring
what our fate has been.
O men
of wealth and power, little fearing,
When all Earth's
deeds are done and trumpets blown;