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. I can't feel the sunshine
2. You, whom the grave cannot bind
3. Closing Time: Public Library
4. I love to see
5. Do you remember still the little song

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