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J. Wolker (1900–1924)
Then, stoker, see yourself,
Exalted, even though
Your tortured body die:
You gaze down on yourself,
In blindness as you lie.
The worker is mortal,
The work lives on:
The stoker is dying,
The lamp sings on:
“Weep no more,
My love, my wife,
Weep no more.”
85
