She is not of the fireside, <br />My lovely love; <br />Nor books, nor even a cradle, <br />She bends above. <br />No, she is bent with lashes, <br />Her flesh is torn. <br />From blackness into blackness <br />She walks forlorn. <br />But factories and prisons <br />Are far more fair <br />Than home or palace gardens <br />If she is there.<br /><br />Lesbia Harford<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/revolution-26/
