"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 droppeth down 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 ! ' "