O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!
How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!
Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied; We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.