The Home Book of Verse
Chapter 63 : "True," say the children, "it may happen That we die before our time: Li

"True," say the children, "it may happen That we die before our time: Little Alice died last year--her grave is shapen Like a s...o...b..ll, 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."

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!

"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.

"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!'"

Ay, be silent! Let them hear each other breathing For a moment, mouth to mouth!

Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing Of their tender human youth!

Let them feel that this cold metallic motion Is not all the life G.o.d fas.h.i.+ons or reveals: Let them prove their living souls against the notion That they live in you, or under you, O wheels!

Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, Grinding life down from its mark; And the children's souls, which G.o.d is calling sunward, Spin on blindly in the dark.

Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers, To look up to Him and pray; So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others, Will bless them another day.

They answer, "Who is G.o.d that He should hear us, While the rus.h.i.+ng of the iron wheels is stirred?

When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us Pa.s.s by, hearing not, or answer not a word!

And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) Strangers speaking at the door: Is it likely G.o.d, with angels singing round Him, Hears our weeping any more?

"Two words, indeed, of praying we remember, And at midnight's hour of harm, 'Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber, We say softly for a charm.

We know no other words except 'Our Father,'

And we think that, in some pause of angels' song, G.o.d may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather, And hold both within his right hand which is strong.

'Our Father!' If He heard us, He would surely (For they call Him good and mild) Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, 'Come and rest with me, my child.'

"But no!" say the children, weeping faster, "He is speechless as a stone; And they tell us, of His image is the master Who commands us to work on.

Go to!" say the children,--"Up in Heaven, Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find.

Do not mock us; grief has made us unbelieving: We look up for G.o.d, but tears have made us blind."

Do you hear the children weeping and disproving, O my brothers, what ye preach?

For G.o.d's possible is taught by His world's loving, And the children doubt of each.

And well may the children weep before you!

They are weary ere they run; They have never seen the suns.h.i.+ne, nor the glory Which is brighter than the sun.

They know the grief of man, without its wisdom; They sink in man's despair, without its calm; Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom, Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm: Are worn as if with age, yet unretrievingly The harvest of its memories cannot reap,-- Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly.

Let them weep! let them weep!

They look up, with their pale and sunken faces, And their look is dread to see, For they mind you of their angels in high places, With eyes turned on Deity.

"How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation, Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart,-- Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation, And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?

Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper, And your purple shows your path; But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper Than the strong man in his wrath!"

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

THE SHADOW-CHILD

Why do the wheels go whirring round, Mother, mother?

Oh, mother, are they giants bound, And will they growl forever?

Yes, fiery giants underground, Daughter, little daughter, Forever turn the wheels around, And rumble-grumble ever.

Why do I pick the threads all day, Mother, mother?

While suns.h.i.+ne children are at play?

And must I work forever?

Yes, shadow-child; the live-long day, Daughter, little daughter, Your hands must pick the threads away, And feel the suns.h.i.+ne never.

Why do the birds sing in the sun, Mother, mother?

If all day long I run and run, Run with the wheels forever?

The birds may sing till day is done, Daughter, little daughter, But with the wheels your feet must run-- Run with the wheels forever.

Why do I feel so tired each night, Mother, mother?

The wheels are always buzzing bright; Do they grow sleepy never?

Oh, baby thing, so soft and white, Daughter, little daughter, The big wheels grind us in their might, And they will grind forever.

And is the white thread never spun, Mother, mother?

And is the white cloth never done, For you and me done never?

Oh, yes, our thread will all be spun, Daughter, little daughter, When we lie down out in the sun, And work no more forever.

And when will come that happy day, Mother, mother?

Oh, shall we laugh and sing and play Out in the sun forever?

Nay, shadow-child, we'll rest all day, Daughter, little daughter, Where green gra.s.s grows and roses gay, There in the sun forever.

Harriet Monroe [1860-1936]

MOTHER WEPT

Mother wept, and father sighed; With delight aglow Cried the lad, "To-morrow," cried, "To the pit I go."

Up and down the place he sped,-- Greeted old and young; Far and wide the tidings spread; Clapt his hands and sung.

Came his cronies; some to gaze Wrapped in wonder; some Free with counsel; some with praise: Some with envy dumb.

"May he," many a gossip cried, "Be from peril kept."

Father hid his face and sighed, Mother turned and wept.

Joseph Skipsey [1832-1903]