A Name, It Has More

Well For The Drones Of The Social Hive That There Are Bees Of An Industrious Turn, Willing, For An Infinitesimal Share Of The Honey, To Undertake The Labor Of Its Fabrication.

With Fingers Weary And Worn, With Eyelids Heavy And Red, A Woman Sat In Unwomanly Rags, Plying Her Needle And Thread.

Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Bright And Yellow, Hard And Cold!

Sweet Are The Little Brooks That Run O'er Pebbles Glancing In The Sun, Singing In Soothing Tones.

He Lies Like A Hedgehog Rolled Up The Wrong Way, Tormenting Himself With His Prickles.