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 But, for what’s obvious—a blind bat would her! Liz.? Why she never sees the work, at all— She sees us, past it,....twice our natural size; And that’s enough! To stir our porridge stirs Her blessed heart; our mutton feeds her soul— She lives! because she loves. And, since she lives, Everything’s live to her; like dull side-streets Yonder in Town, to one that knows the way, The little dingy duties lead her out To the big, main, exciting thoroughfares. The world sits in the Paddock, and all’s well! —Eggs are Americas! and milking means Commerce! Art sets the patches in the shirts; Wash-day’s a glorious, weekly Waterloo; The good all-genuine squeak of An.’s new boots Takes her a trip to Town (it doesn’t me!), And Heaven’s inside four walls!—But Oh, Liz, Liz! Janet’s outside! poor Janet stands by, blind At this transfiguration! It’s no use. I do try, and I love them dearly, too, But I’m not Liz; they’re not Me, only Mine; It’s her life,—but it’s Just my drudgery; It takes her—and it takes my time and temper! So you’re all right, Liz! You’re used-up, and happy. But I’m not. It’s like stuffing darning-wool Into a sewing-needle—most stays out, And what’s got in is no particular good.

The worst is, that Elizabeth sees it, too— Oh, it does make me feel so mean! Dear Liz, Who used to get my meals, and mend my frocks, And never growl’d or grumbled—only sobb’d,