She sits in the dust at the walls <br /> And makes cigars, <br />Bending at the bench <br />With fingers wage-anxious, <br />Changing her sweat for the day's pay. <br /> <br />Now the noon hour has come, <br />And she leans with her bare arms <br />On the window-sill over the river, <br />Leans and feels at her throat <br />Cool-moving things out of the free open ways: <br /> <br />At her throat and eyes and nostrils <br />The touch and the blowing cool <br />Of great free ways beyond the walls.<br /><br />Carl Sandburg<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/noon-hour/
