Grudgingly have I crawled along this hallway, wishing I could return to the refuge of my chambers and a soft bed. The cock crows and the chores do not wait for an aching back and weary grip.
I am one piece of the machinery of industry, standing before a great stamping press, keeping my hands just ahead of its cutting maw as I feed sheet after sheet into it.
Lord! These days of labor are sea mist. I play at being a figure of woe but I am the child of the king, charmed and blessed with ease and sunshine.
What I thought was pain is the tingle of power. What I thought woe is joy.
I am dancing in place, twisting, reaching! No cog I.
Tonight I will run back home to tell of all the wonders I saw and did.
Why was I crawling? I scarce recall.