If we cared for any meadows, it were merely

Do you ask them why they stand

Ay! be silent! Let them hear each other breathing

The old year is ending in the frost---

They are binding up their hearts away from breaking,

When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us

They are weary ere they run;

Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely,

Like a snowball, in the rime.

Our Father! If He heard us, He would surely

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

Strangers speaking at the door:

(For they call Him good and mild)

Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward,

They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory

And well may the children weep before you;

The young flowers are blowing toward the west---

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

The old man may weep for his to-morrow

We say softly for a charm.

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

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,

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

Few paces have we taken, yet are weary?

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

And they tell us, of His imaｈttｐs://reaｄ.９9ｃsw.coｍge is the master

For the mans grief abhorrent, draws and presses

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

Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him,

No dear remembrance keep,---

Let them touch each others hands, in a fresh wreathing

But the young, young children, O my brothers,

So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others,

The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.

Your old earth, they say, is very dreary;

Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,

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

And the childrens souls, which God is calling sunward,

Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping---

To drop down in them and sleep.

Two words, indeed, of praying we remember,

The shroud, by the kirk-chime!

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

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

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

Why their tears are falling so?---

Death in life, as best to have!

That we die before our time.

In our happy Fatherland?

And the graves are for the old.

The young birds are chirping in the nest;

And, all day, the iron wheels are 九九藏書droning;

Through the coal-dark, underground---

And their look is dread to see,

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

For, all day, we drag our burden tiring,

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

Who commands us to work on.

Which is brighter than the sun:

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

Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,

Down the cheeks of infancy---

Hears our weeping any more?

Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking

And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in

We know no other words except Our Father,

From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her

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

Let them weep! let them weep!

But they answer, Are your cowslips of the meadows

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

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

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

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

White the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred?

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

From your pleasures fair and fine!

Than the strong man in his wrath!

He is sphttps://read.99csw.comeechless as a stone;

Like our weeds anear the mine?

With a cerement from the grave.

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

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

With eyes meant for Deity;---

We fall upon our faces, trying to go;

Do you question the young children in the sorrow,

Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through!

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

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

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

It is good when it happens, say the children,

For oh, say the children, we are weary,

And their looks are sad to see,

For they mind you of their angels in their places,

Stop! be silent for to-day!

Let them prove their inward souls against the notion

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

And at midnights hour of harm,---

Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants,

Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly

Our grave-rest is very far to seek.

And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping,

Spin on blindly in the dark.

Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly:

九九藏書But the young, young children, O my brothers,

Was no room for any work in the close clay:

The young lambs are bleating in the meadows;

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

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

For the outside earth is cold,---

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

O my brothers, what ye preach?

Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron

Come and rest with me, my child.

They are weeping in the playtime of the others

For a moment, mouth to mouth---

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

But no! say the children, weeping faster,

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

And sometimes we could pray,

They are weeping bitterly!---

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

Grinding life down from its mark;

True, say the young children, it may happen

Do you hear the children weeping and disproving,

The old hope is hardest to be lost:

They look up with their pale and sunken faces,

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

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

In the country of the free.

And the children doubt of each.

That we die before our time九_九_藏_書.

And the walls turn in their places---

In the factories, round and round.

God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather,

To look up to Him and pray---

Our young feet, they say, are very weak!

Will bless them another day.

Of their tender human youth!

And we cannot run or leap---

Let them feel that this cold metallic motion

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

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

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

And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?

And your purple shows yo}r path;

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

And that cannot stop their tears.

And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering,

The old tree is leafless in the forest---

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

And hold both within His right hand which is strong.

They look up, with their pale and sunken faces,

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

But the childs sob curseth deeper in the silence

Their wind comes in our faces,---

Our Father, looking upward in the chamber,

Which is lost in Long Ago---

Ere the sorrow comes with years?

The young fawns are playing with the shadows;