With a cerement from the grave.

The young lambs are bleating in the meadows;

And they tell us, of His image is the master

Why their tears are falling so?---

Strangers speaking at the door:

Who commands us to work on.

They look up, with their pale and sunken faces,

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

They are weeping in the playtime of the others

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

In the country of the free.

(For they call Him good and mild)

Than the strong man in his wrath!"

Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,

Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking

And the childrens souls, which God is calling sunward,

Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through!

Was no room for any work in the close clay:

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

For, all day, we drag our burden tiring,

The old tree is leafless in the forest---

Of their tender human youth!

Down the cheeks of infancy---

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

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

Stop! be silent for to-day! "

The young fawns are playing with the shadows;

They answer, "九-九-藏-書Who is God that He should hear us,

The old hope is hardest to be lost:

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

Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly

The young birds are chirping in the nest;

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

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

Our Father, looking upward in the chamber,

"That we die before our time."

Ay! be silent! Let them hear each other breathing

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

And their look is dread to see,

To drop down in them and sleep.

O my brothers, what ye preach?

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

They are weeping bitterly!---

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

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

But the childs sob curseth deeper in the silence

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

Let them weep! let them weep!

For the outside earth is cold,---

And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering,

And your purple shows yo}r path;

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

Their wind comes in our faces,---

The young flowers are blowing toward the 九_九_藏_書west---

And their looks are sad to see,

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

We know no other words except Our Father,

Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants,

Do you hear the children weeping and disproving,

Let them feel that this cold metallic motion

Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely,

If we cared for any meadows, it were merely

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

Come and rest with me, my child.

They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory

They are binding up their hearts away from breaking,

But the young, young children, O my brothers,

Ere the sorrow comes with years?

Death in life, as best to have!

For the mans grief abhorrent, draws and presses

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

We say softly for a charm.

And the walls turn in their places---

Which is lost in Long Ago---

And well may the children weep before you;

Our Father! If He heard us, He would surely

Do you ask them why they stand

And, all day, the iron wheels are droning;

Grinding life down from its mark;

The shroud, by the kirk-chime!

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

"But no!&qu九*九*藏*書ot; say the children, weeping faster,

White the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred?

Spin on blindly in the dark.

God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather,

So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others,

Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,

From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her

They look up with their pale and sunken faces,

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

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

Our grave-rest is very far to seek.

And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?

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

Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him,

And that cannot stop their tears.

For a moment, mouth to mouth---

And at midnights hour of harm,---

In our happy Fatherland?

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

The old year is ending in the frost---

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

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

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

Let them prove their inward souls against the notion

And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in

And, uread.99csw.comnderneath our heavy eyelids drooping,

Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward,

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,

"He is speechless as a stone;

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

Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron

And sometimes we could pray,

Like our weeds anear the mine?

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

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

Through the coal-dark, underground---

In the factories, round and round.

But the young, young children, O my brothers,

"Two words, indeed, of praying we remember,

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

And hold both within His right hand which is strong.

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

They are weary ere they run;

From your pleasures fair and fine!

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

To look up to Him and pray---

With eyes meant for Deity;---

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

And we cannot run or leap---

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

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

Hears our weeping any more?

Like a snowball, in the rime.

And the graves are for the old.

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

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

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

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

Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly:

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

Do you question the young children in the sorrow,

But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadows

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

And the children doubt of each.

For they mind you of their angels in their places,

Will bless them another day.

The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.

The old man may weep for his to-morrow

That we die before our time.

Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping---

We fall upon our faces, trying to go;

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

Which is brighter than the sun:

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

Let them touch each others hands, in a fresh wreathing

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

No dear remembrance keep,---

Few paces have we taken, yet are weary?

When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us