III

They look up with their pale and sunken faces;
And their looks are sad to see,
For the man’s hoary anguish draws and presses
Down the cheeks of infancy. 
“Your old earth,” they say, “is very dreary;
Our young feet,” they say, “are very weak;
Few paces have we taken, yet are weary;
Our grave-rest is very far to seek. 
Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children;
For the outside earth is cold,
And we young ones stand without in our bewildering,
And the graves are for the old.”

IV

“True,” say the children, “it may happen
That we die before our time: 
Little Alice died last year; her grave is shapen
Like a snowball in the rime. 
We looked into the pit prepared to take her: 
Was no room for any work in the close clay,
From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her,
Crying, ‘Get up, little Alice! it is day.’ 
If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower,
With your ear down, little Alice never cries. 
Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her,
For the smile has time for growing in her eyes;
And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in
The shroud by the kirk-chime. 
It is good when it happens,” say the children,
“That we die before our time.”

V

Alas, alas, the children!  They are seeking
Death in life, as best to have. 
They are binding up their hearts away from breaking
With a cerement from the grave. 
Go out, children, from the mine and from the city;
Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do;
Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty;
Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through. 
But they answer, “Are your cowslips of the meadows
Like our weeds anear the mine? 
Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows,
From your pleasures fair and fine.

VI

“For oh!” say the children, “we are weary,
And we cannot run or leap;
If we cared for any meadows, it were merely
To drop down in them, and sleep. 
Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping;
We fall upon our faces, trying to go;
And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping,
The reddest flower would look as pale as snow;
For all day we drag our burden tiring,
Through the coal-dark, underground;
Or all day we drive the wheels of iron
In the factories, round and round.

VII

“For all-day the wheels are droning, turning;
Their wind comes in our faces,
Till our hearts turn, our heads with pulses burning,
And the walls turn in their places. 
Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling,
Turns the long light that drops adown the wall,
Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling,—­
All are turning, all the day, and we with all. 
And all day the iron wheels are droning,
And sometimes we could pray,
‘O ye wheels’ (breaking out in a mad moaning),
‘Stop! be silent for to-day!’”