His way was through the stubble-field, Where mellow fragrance filled the air; And from the earth’s o’erflowing yield The scattered fruits lay ripe and fair. There women laboured in the sun, Uncouthly clad, and sun-embrowned, The old, the weak, the little one, Upon the stony furrowed ground. Sir Self laughed softly as he went. Quoth he: “Here nature hath her way, And shows no other ornament Than in the air and sunshine play. Ah! what a sorry, sordid sight Doth Beauty thus unfashioned make!— You, city dames, to such a plight Would bring the binding weed and rake.” There came one tripping to his knee, “Wild flowers: oh! buy wild flowers,” she said, And looked into his face to see What answer there was to be read. Sir Self passed on the other side, While from his hand a pittance came. Quoth he: “This nature hath no pride, Nor knoweth how to blush for shame.” Then onward through the village lane Of hovels dark, and cribbed, and low, Where narrow door and knotted pane Scant light and less of air bestow: Scared men and women rested there, And children swarmed and gambolled by. Quoth he: “Among so many, where May modesty find room to lie?” Sir Self went saddened on his road Toward the dimly spangled town; A girl upon a heavy load Beside the path had sat her down: “Will no one help you on your way?” “I want no help,” the girl replied, “I bear this burden day by day.” Quoth he: “This is true labour’s pride.” Then other women sorely bent, Beneath their burdens passed along; Yet spoke they gaily as they went, Or softly hummed a quiet song: And some bore children, some their load A failing sister’s pack increased. Then thought Sir Self: “With whip and goad, These women were like laden beast!” The shambling, reeking suburb through, There rose a mansion broad and high, Whence light from countless windows flew, And flamed a meteor in the sky; And from its gates, at clang of bell, Came women forth, with saucy word And cry. Quoth he: “Can this be well When women like the cattle herd?” He marked the motley troop; some gay With wilful burst of mirth long pent; Some downcast went their silent way; Some, stolid-featured, mocked content. But there was labour’s stain on all, The travailed look, the ashy skin. Quoth he: “What may this folk befall, With crime without and want within?” The gleaming town shone more and more, As fell the night’s mist-laden gloom, Till heaven’s face seemed dotted o’er With feeble sparks, where wheel and loom Went on their ceaseless whirl and swing, As busy hand and eager eye, Mid shuttle’s flight and iron’s ring, Their still-renewing taskwork ply.