With hands all reddened and sore,
With back and shoulders low bent,
She stands all day, and part of the night
Till her strength is well-nigh spent.
With her rub—rub—rub,
And her wash, rinse, shake,
Till the muscles start and the spirit sinks,
And the bones begin to ache.
At morn when the sunbeams scatter
In rays so golden and bright,
She yearns for the hour of even,
She longs for the restful night.
Still she rubs—rubs—rubs,
With the energy born of want,
For the larder's empty and must be filled,—
The fuel's growing scant.
As long as the heart is blithesome,
Will her spirit bear her up,
And kindness and love imparteth a zest
To sweeten hard life's bitter cup.
But to toil—toil—toil,
From the grey of the morn till eve,
Is an ordeal so drear for a human to bear,
Which the rich can hardly conceive.
What part in the world of pleasure?
What holidays are her own?
For the rich reck not of privations and tears,
Saying, "she is to the manor born."
So dry those scalding tears
That furrow so deeply thy cheek,
For rest—rest—rest
Will come at the end of the week.
Yes, even on earth there's a day
When labor and toil must cease,
The world at its birth received the mandate
Of the seventh day of rest.
When the sweet-toned Sabbath bells
Break o'er the balmy air,
Then sing—sing—sing
That the morning stars may hear.
For the frugal table spread,
For the crust and the humble bed,
When He to whom all earth belongs
Had not where to lay His head,
Then toil for thy daily bread,
Let thy heart like thy hands be clean,
And rub—rub—rub
Till thy bones all ache, I ween.
With hands all reddened and sore,
With back and shoulders bent low,
Thou hast for thy comfort that rest, sweet rest,
Will be found on the other shore.
Then they who've washed their souls
Will dip in the crystal tide
Of the fountain clear that was oped to man
From the Saviour's wounded side.
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Comments
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Heartbreaking
I can see this person's back-breaking work being overcast by the world of those that never think twice about how things get done. This is such a timeless piece. There is such a divide between the haves and the have-nots. I get sick thinking about squandered wealth and callous attitudes that are constantly being promoted on new television shows. I often wonder why ratings seem to be highest in shows that promote mindless sex, murder and wasted humor. There is a reality that should not be escaped--those of people that struggle everyday just to survive. This poem just made me think about a book entitled Nickled and Dimed in America. Poetry has a way of causing us to examine actions. This poem makes me wonder how society manages to abuse lower-class workers. During Fordham's time period, African-Americans were not treated as true citizens. I think of the apartheid system that was permitted for years in South Africa. I think about so many other ethnic groups that are still not treated correctly.
What this poem does is offer two things: the reality of a person's hard life, and the reward of trying to stay focused on the rewards of the afterlife. Fordham uses the typical style of writing of her period to promote "faithfulness." The idea is that people may be cruel to you, but God sees all, and in the end, He will give you your just reward; Keep your heart pure.
Poems like this are good to be acquainted with--they keep us mindful.
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