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. Closing Time: Public Library
2. Do you remember still the little song
3. Florence kneels down to say her prayers
4. All through the day at my machine
5. If you have loved a brave story

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