THE TOILERS

Crouching they cling like vermin to the earth And with their bleeding fingers scrape the earth But for a little dust, their sustenance, A little dust mixed with the sweat of brow, The blood of fingers and the tears of pain. ’Tis not for them the sun shines gloriously, The flowers bloom, the fruit hangs on the tree, ’Tis not for them the birds and poets sing, Or lovely women smile. They have to crouch and cling and sweat and scrape But for a little dust—their sustenance.