Elizabeth Margaret Chandler,
Poetical Works — Summer Morning
“ Young forms, and weak old men, whose limbs are worn Nigh to the grave—strong men, whose bow'd necks bear Perchance the weight of heavy irons, that wear Into their very souls;—small heed has he Who tasks them, of their ills, and none will spare From the rude scourge—nor old nor infancy— Who have the allotted toil perform'd imperfectly.Oh shame upon man's selfishness! ”
