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Labor I watch the newly widowed man Whose wife has just been cruelly slain, Then bend with my condolence plan, Reflecting through the window’s pane. The craftsman nimbly folds his hand, A sadness sewn between his brow, I see his life’s true labors stand, Detached, as he is standing now. He leans into his son’s clay face, His eyes the weight of twice his debt. And turning towards his Dad’s embrace Lets the plaster toughen, then set. At first their fingers find clamor To let their hands soften, entwine The grip of the craftsman’s hammer, To start building a box from pine. |
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