“ With this tongue-tied, slow-witted, hulking lout,
As cold and dull and lifeless as the slag.
And, all on edge, o'erwrought by the crampt day
Of crouched, close stitching at her dull machine,
It seemed to her a girl of seventeen
Should have, at least, an hour of careless talking--
Should have, at least, an hour of life, out walking
Beside a lover, mettlesome and gay--
Not through her too short freedom doomed to lag
Beside a sparkless giant, glum and grim,
Till all her eager youth should waste away. ”

“ Well-knit, big-thewed, broad-chested, steady-eyed--
She dimly knew of depths she could not sound
In this strong lover, silent at her side:
And, once again, her heart was touched with pride
To think that he was hers, this strapping lad--
Black-haired, close-cropt, clean-skinned, and neatly clad... ”

“ Among bleak hills of mounded slag they walked,
'Neath sullen evening skies that seemed to sag
O'er-burdened by the belching smoke, and lie
Upon their aching foreheads, dense and dank,
Till both felt youth within them fail and flag--
Even as the flame which shot a fiery rag
A fluttering moment through the murky sky
Above the black blast-furnaces, then sank
Again beneath the iron bell close-bound--
And it was all that they could do to drag
Themselves along, 'neath that dead-weight of smoke,
Over the cinder-blasted, barren ground. ”