Poem by Lesbia Harford

* * *

He had served eighty masters. They'd have said
He "worked for these employers" to earn bread.
And they, if they had heard him, would have sneered
To brand him inefficient whom they feared.
For to know eighty masters is to know
What sort of thing men who are masters grow.

1. Summer Lightning
2. Machinist Talking
3. Do you remember still the little song
4. Child Sun
5. Florence kneels down to say her prayers

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