And we cannot run or leap---

They look up with their pale and sunken faces,

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

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

They are weeping in the playtime of the others

And their looks are sad to see,

And, all day, the iron wheels are droning;

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

The young lambs are bleating in the meadows;

And the children doubt of each.

Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,

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

The old tree is leafless in the forest---

But the young, young children, O my brothers,

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

They look up, with their pale and sunken faces,

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

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

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

Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly

To look up to Him and pray---

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

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

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

In the factories, round and round.

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

Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking

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

White the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred?

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

For oh, say the children, we are weary,

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

So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others,

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

In the country of the free.

And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping,

Ay! be silent! Let them hear each other breathing

Through the coal-dark, underground---

No dear remembrance keep,---

Hears our weeping any more?

And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in

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

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

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

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

And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering,

With eyes meant for Deity;---

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

And your purple shows yo}r path;

The shroud, by the kirk-chime!

Like our weeds anear the mine?

They99lib.net are binding up their hearts away from breaking,

They are weary ere they run;

Our Father, looking upward in the chamber,

The old man may weep for his to-morrow

Our grave-rest is very far to seek.

To drop down in them and sleep.

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

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

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

For a moment, mouth to mouth---

For, all day, we drag our burden tiring,

Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through!

God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather,

Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly:

That we die before our time.

And well may the children weep before you;

Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron

The old year is ending in the frost---

When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us

Stop! be silent for to-day!

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

We fall upon our faces, trying to go;

And the walls turn in their places---

And their look is dread to see,

Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,

Why their tears are falling so?---

It is good when it happens, say the children,

O my brothers

ｗｗw.９9ｌｉb•net

, what ye preach?

And they tell us, of His image is the master

Few paces have we taken, yet are weary?

Ere the sorrow comes with years?

Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely,

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

He is speechless as a stone;

If we cared for any meadows, it were merely

And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?

We say softly for a charm.

True, say the young children, it may happen

And that cannot stop their tears.

With a cerement from the grave.

Do you ask them why they stand

Do you hear the children weeping and disproving,

And hold both within His right hand which is strong.

Let them touch each others hands, in a fresh wreathing

(For they call Him good and mild)

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

The old hope is hardest to be lost:

Death in life, as best to have!

But no! say the children, weeping faster,

Come and rest with me, my child.

Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward,

The young fawns are playing with the shadows;

They are weeping bitterly!---

Two words, indeed, of praying we remember,

Turn ｈttｐ://ｗｗｗ•9９lib.netthe black flies that crawl along the ceiling---

Our Father! If He heard us, He would surely

Your old earth, they say, is very dreary;

The young flowers are blowing toward the west---

Let them weep! let them weep!

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

Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants,

But the childs sob curseth deeper in the silence

From your pleasures fair and fine!

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

Was no room for any work in the close clay:

That we die before our time.

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

But the young, young children, O my brothers,

Spin on blindly in the dark.

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

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

And the graves are for the old.

The young birds are chirping in the nest;

Their wind comes in our faces,---

They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory

And the childrens souls, which God is calling sunward,

Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping---

Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him,

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

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

For the 九九藏书outside earth is cold,---

Strangers speaking at the door:

Like a snowball, in the rime.

For they mind you of their angels in their places,

We know no other words except Our Father,

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

Let them feel that this cold metallic motion

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

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

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,

And at midnights hour of harm,---

Will bless them another day.

Who commands us to work on.

Which is lost in Long Ago---

The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.

Down the cheeks of infancy---

Of their tender human youth!

Grinding life down from its mark;

In our happy Fatherland?

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

Our young feet, they say, are very weak!

But they answer, Are your cowslips of the meadows

Than the strong man in his wrath!

From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her

Do you question the young children in the sorrow,

Which is brighter than the sun:

For the mans grief abhorrent, draws and presses

And sometimes we could pray,

Let them prove their inward souls against the notion