There is a man

There is a man who has swept or rubbed a floor
This morning crying in the Most Holy Name
Of God for Pity, and has not been able to claim
A moments respite, that for one hour, or more.
But can the not-conceiving heart outside
Believe the atmosphere that hangs so heavy
And clouds the torment, afterwards in the leavy
And fresher air, other torments may abide,
Or pass; and new pain, but this memory
Will not pass, it is too bad and the grinding
Remains, and what is better is the finding
Of any ease from working or changing free
Words between words, and cadences in change
But the pain is in thought, which will not freely range.