Care to know what greets me daily
In this land of hurt and shame?
My two hands go sawing gaily,
While my heart—repeats your name.

Ah! You 'd know if you but saw me
Round the house! At night I sing
Thus, as if my hands were sawing—
Not through wood—some other thing.

Hands, once free—inept, ill-chosen—
Sawing, sawing, like a clown...
And Our-Lady-of-the-Snowstorm
Sweeping, sweeping through the town...

November 1919