poem The cry of the childen

"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 placesTurns 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 ! ' "