Down the cheeks of infancy---

The young lambs are bleating in the meadows;

They are leaning their young heads against their mothers---

And we think that, in some pause of angels song,

"Our young feet," they say, "are very weak!

Of their tender human youth!

Spin on blindly in the dark.

And your purple shows yo}r path;

So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others,

Crying, Get up, little Alice! it is day.

Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly:

They sink in mans despair, without its calm---

And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering,

"Two words, indeed, of praying we remember,

Go out, children, from the mine and from the city---

Our Father, looking upward in the chamber,

For they mind you of their angels in their places,

To look up to Him and pray---

"Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary;"

"He is speechless as a stone;

And the graves are for the old.

Little Alice died last year---the grave is shapen

"True," say the young children, "it may happen

Now, tell the poor young children, O my brothers,

Let them prove their inward souls against the notion

"That we die befo九九藏书网re our time."

The young flowers are blowing toward the west---

For the smile has time for growing in her eyes---

"But no!" say the children, weeping faster,

In the country of the free.

And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping,

Like a snowball, in the rime.

Why their tears are falling so?---

They answer, "Who is God that He should hear us,

And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in

In our happy Fatherland?

That they live in you, os under you, O wheels!---

Will you stand, to move the world, on a childs heart,

From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her

Which is brighter than the sun:

The old year is ending in the frost---

Stop! be silent for to-day! "

"How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation,

Do you ask them why they stand

Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward,

And, all day, the iron wheels are droning;

The young fawns are playing with the shadows;

O ye wheels, (breaking out in a mad moaning)

Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom,---

Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty---

God may pluck them with the silence swee九九藏书网t to gather,

If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower,

The young birds are chirping in the nest;

With eyes meant for Deity;---

For the outside earth is cold,---

Do not mock us; grief has made us unbelieving---

Do you hear the children weeping and disproving,

Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping---

White the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred?

Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do---

Was no room for any work in the close clay:

Do you question the young children in the sorrow,

Their wind comes in our faces,---

Ay! be silent! Let them hear each other breathing

They know the grief of man, but not the wisdom;

Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling---

Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows,

Ask the old why they weep, and not the children,

It is good when it happens," say the children,

Death in life, as best to have!

They look up, with their pale and sunken faces,

To drop down in them and sleep.

In the factories, round and round.

And that cannot stop their tears.

And their looks are sad to see,

They are binding up their hearts away from breaking,

We fall upon our faces, trying to go;

The shroud, by the kihttp://www.99lib.netrk-chime!

And they tell us, of His image is the master

Is not all the life God fashions or reveals---

Our grave-rest is very far to seek.

With your ear down, little Alice never cries!---

Go to!" say the children,---"Up in Heaven,

And at midnights hour of harm,---

Through the coal-dark, underground---

We know no other words except Our Father,

For Gods possible is taught by His worlds loving---

And the childrens souls, which God is calling sunward,

Grinding life down from its mark;

And hold both within His right hand which is strong.

Strangers speaking at the door:

That we die before our time.

But the young, young children, O my brothers,

And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding)

Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find.

Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her,

For, all day, we drag our burden tiring,

The old tree is leafless in the forest---

Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling---

And the walls turn in their places---

When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us

But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadows

Let them weep! let them weep!

Ere the sorrow comes with years?

The old 九-九-藏-书-网man may weep for his to-morrow

Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron

O my brothers, what ye preach?

And well may the children weep before you;

For the mans grief abhorrent, draws and presses

Which is lost in Long Ago---

Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,

Turns the long light that droppeth down the wall---

Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly

With a cerement from the grave.

"For, all day, the wheels are droning, turning,---

(For they call Him good and mild)

They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory

And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?

Come and rest with me, my child.

Let them feel that this cold metallic motion

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,

Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word!

They are weeping bitterly!---

Let them touch each others hands, in a fresh wreathing

If we cared for any meadows, it were merely

The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest---

All are turning, all the day, and we with all.---

Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely,

The old hope is hardest to be lost:

Few paces have we taken, yet are weary?

Than the strong man in his wrath!"

No dear remembrance keep,---藏书网

Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through!

They are weary ere they run;

Till our hearts turn,---our head, with pulses burning,

Like our weeds anear the mine?

But the childs sob curseth deeper in the silence

"For oh," say the children, "we are weary,

The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.

From your pleasures fair and fine!

And sometimes we could pray,

But the young, young children, O my brothers,

Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him,

And the children doubt of each.

And their look is dread to see,

Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,

We say softly for a charm.

Hears our weeping any more?

We look up for God, but tears have made us blind."

Will bless them another day.

We looked into the pit prepared to take her---

Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking

Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm,---

They are weeping in the playtime of the others

For a moment, mouth to mouth---

Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants,

And we cannot run or leap---

Our Father! If He heard us, He would surely

They look up with their pale and sunken faces,

Who commands us to work on.