There is joy in the woods just now, br The leaves are whispers of song, br And the birds make mirth on the bough br And music the whole day long, br And God! to dwell in the town br In these springlike summer days, br On my brow an unfading frown br And hate in my heart always— br br A machine out of gear, aye, tired, br Yet forced to go on—for I’m hired. br br Just forced to go on through fear, br For every day I must eat br And find ugly clothes to wear, br And bad shoes to hurt my feet br And a shelter for work-drugged sleep! br A mere drudge! but what can one do? br A man that’s a man cannot weep! br Suicide? A quitter? Oh, no! br br But a slave should never grow tired, br Whom the masters have kindly hired.