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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=538236" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Scrubber</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=538236" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">She's tall and gaunt, and in her hard, sad face<br>With flashes of the old fun's animation<br>There lowers the fixed and peevish resignation<br>Bred of a past where troubles came apace.<br>She tells me that her husband, ere he died,<br>Saw seven of their children pass away,<br>And never knew the little lass at play<br>Out on the green, in whom he's deified.<br>Her kin dispersed, her friends forgot and gone,<br>All simple faith her honest Irish mind,<br>Scolding her spoiled young saint, she labours on:<br>Telling her dreams, taking her patients' part,<br>Trailing her coat sometimes: and you shall find<br>No rougher, quainter speech, nor kinder heart.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=William+Ernest+Henley">William Ernest Henley</a></strong></div>

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