Ruth Harwood

From “Working-hour Songs”

GREY rain on the window-pane,

And in my heart grey rain—

And the ceaseless whir of machines

Pounding my weary brain.

He had such a little share of life,

And now he’s gone.

And all my heart went with him,

Yet I go numbly on,

Making little clothes

Just the size of him,

Little clothes for others

But nevermore for him.

Grey rain on the window-pane,

And in my heart grey rain—

And the endless grind of machines

Beating a dull refrain.