Classic Poem

For let the impediment be what it may
His hands must clothe and nourish them, and there
From hour to hour so constantly he feels
An obligation pressing him with weight
Inevitable, that all offices
Which want this single tendency appear
Or trivial or redundant; hence remains
So little to be done which can assume
The appearance of a voluntary act,
That his affections in their very core
Are false, there is no freedom in his love.
Nor would he err perhaps who should assert
That this perceived necessity creates
The same constriction of the heart, the same
[ ] in those with whom he lives,
His wife and children. What then can we hope
From one who is the worst of slaves, the slave
Of his own house? The light that shines abroad,
How can it lead him to an act of love?
Whom can he comfort? Will the afflicted turn
Their steps to him, or will the eye of grief
And sorrow seek him? Is the name of friend
Known to the poor man? Whence is he to hear
The sweet creative voice of gratitude?