I cannot well afford to write —
My fingers are in call elsewhere;
But I must voice my black despair,
Or I should die before 'twas night.
I have no mother now to call,
And seek her heart, and tell her all.
O, mother! well I know you rest
In yonder heaven, serene and blest:
How sadly, strangely sweet 'twould be
To know you knew and pitied me!
And yet I would not have you dream
E'en of the dagger's faintest gleam
That's pointing at my maiden breast.
Rest on, sweet mother, sweetly rest!
And still I feel your loving art,
Sometimes upon my aching heart.
That night I stood upon the pier,
And the gray river swept so near,
And glanced up at me in a way
Some one with friendly voice might say,
" Come to my arms and rest, poor girl. "
And I leaned down with head awhirl,
And heart so heavy it might sink
Me underneath the river's brink,
A hand I could not feel or see
Drew me away and fondled me;
A voice I felt, unheard, though near,
Said, " Wait! you must not enter here,
And press against me with one stain:
Poor girl, not long you need remain! "


But O, sweet mother! I must write
The words that would be said to-night,
If you could hold my tired head here!
I cannot see one gleam of cheer;
This is a garret room, so bleak
The cold air stings my fading cheek;
Fireless my room, my garb is thin,
And hateful Hunger has come in,
And says, " Toil on, you foolish one!
You shall be mine when all is done. "
Two days and nights of pain and dread
I've gnawed upon a crust of bread
(For what scant nourishment 'twould give)
So hard, I could not eat and live!
O mother! I to God shall pray
This tale in heaven may ne'er be told;
For you are where whole streets are gold,
And I — earn twenty cents a day!