Throb, throb, throb, weariness, ache, and pain! One's heart and one's eyes on fire, And never a spark in one's brain. The stupid paper and ink,
That might be turned into gold, Lie here unused Since one's brain refused To do its tricks — as of old.
One can suffer still, indeed, But one cannot think any more. There's no fire in the grate, No food on the plate,
And the East-wind shrieks through the door. The sunshine grins in the street: It used to cheer me like wine, Now it only quickens my brain's sick beat;
And the children are crying for bread to eat And I cannot write a line! Molly, my pet — do n't cry, Father can n't write if you do —
And anyhow, if you only knew, It's hard enough as it is. There, give old daddy a kiss, And cuddle down on the floor;
We'll have some dinner by-and-by. Now, fool, try! Try once more! Hold your head tight in your hands, Bring your will to bear!
The children are starving — your little ones — While you sit fooling there. Beth, with her golden hair; Moll, with her rough, brown head —
Here they are — see! Against your knee, Waiting there to be fed!— I cannot bear their eyes.
Their soft little kisses burn — They will cry again In vain, in vain, For the food that I cannot earn.
If I could only write Just a dozen pages or so On “The Prospects of Trade,” or “The Irish Question,” or “Why are Wages so Low?” —
The printers are waiting for copy now, I've had my next week's screw, There'll be nothing more till I've written something, Oh, God! what am I to do?
If I could only write! The paper glares up white Like the cursed white of the heavy stone Under which she lies alone;
And the ink is black like death, And the room and the window are black. Molly, Molly — the sun's gone out, Cannot you fetch it back?
Did I frighten my little ones? Never mind, daddy dropped asleep — Cuddle down closely, creep Close to his knee
And daddy will see If he can n't do his writing. Vain! I shall never write again! Oh, God! was it like a love divine
To make their lives hang on my pen When I cannot write a line?
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