The Cry of the ChildrenBy Elizabeth Barrett Browning1806-1861(English. Foremost among the world’s poets. Lived with her husband, Robert Browning, for many years in Italy, championing the cause of the Italian people toward liberty.)
By Elizabeth Barrett Browning1806-1861
(English. Foremost among the world’s poets. Lived with her husband, Robert Browning, for many years in Italy, championing the cause of the Italian people toward liberty.)
Do you hear the children weeping, O my brothers,Ere the sorrow comes with years?They are leaning their young heads against their mothers—Andthatcannot stop their tears.The young lambs are bleating in the meadows;The young birds are chirping in the nest:The young fawns are playing in the shadows;The young flowers are blowing toward the west—But the young, young children, O my brothers,They are weeping bitterly!They are weeping in the playtime of the others,In the country of the free.Do you question the young children in the sorrowWhy their tears are falling so?The old man may weep for his to-morrowWhich is lost in Long Ago;The old tree is leafless in the forest,The old year is ending in the frost,The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest,The old hope is hardest to be lost:But the young, young children, O my brothers,Do you ask them why they standWeeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,In our happy Fatherland?They look up with their pale and sunken faces,And their looks are sad to see,For the man’s hoary anguish draws and pressesDown the cheeks of infancy;“Your old earth,” they say, “is very dreary,Our young feet,” they say, “are very weak;Few paces we have to ken, yet are weary—Our grave-rest is very far to seek.Ask the old 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”....“For oh,” say the children, “we are weary,And we cannot run or leap;If we cared for any meadows, it were merelyTo drop down in them and sleep.Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping,We fall upon our faces, trying to go;And, underneath our eyelids heavy drooping,The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.For all day long we drag our burden tiringThrough the coal-dark, underground,Or, all day we drive the wheels of ironIn the factories, round and round.“For, all day the wheels are droning, turning;Their wind comes in our faces,Till our hearts turn, our head, with pulses burning,And the walls turn in their places:Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling,Turns the 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 today!’”....They look up, with their pale and sunken faces,And their look is dread to see,For they mind you of the angels in their 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 deeperThan the strong man in his wrath.”
Do you hear the children weeping, O my brothers,Ere the sorrow comes with years?They are leaning their young heads against their mothers—Andthatcannot stop their tears.The young lambs are bleating in the meadows;The young birds are chirping in the nest:The young fawns are playing in the shadows;The young flowers are blowing toward the west—But the young, young children, O my brothers,They are weeping bitterly!They are weeping in the playtime of the others,In the country of the free.Do you question the young children in the sorrowWhy their tears are falling so?The old man may weep for his to-morrowWhich is lost in Long Ago;The old tree is leafless in the forest,The old year is ending in the frost,The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest,The old hope is hardest to be lost:But the young, young children, O my brothers,Do you ask them why they standWeeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,In our happy Fatherland?They look up with their pale and sunken faces,And their looks are sad to see,For the man’s hoary anguish draws and pressesDown the cheeks of infancy;“Your old earth,” they say, “is very dreary,Our young feet,” they say, “are very weak;Few paces we have to ken, yet are weary—Our grave-rest is very far to seek.Ask the old 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”....“For oh,” say the children, “we are weary,And we cannot run or leap;If we cared for any meadows, it were merelyTo drop down in them and sleep.Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping,We fall upon our faces, trying to go;And, underneath our eyelids heavy drooping,The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.For all day long we drag our burden tiringThrough the coal-dark, underground,Or, all day we drive the wheels of ironIn the factories, round and round.“For, all day the wheels are droning, turning;Their wind comes in our faces,Till our hearts turn, our head, with pulses burning,And the walls turn in their places:Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling,Turns the 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 today!’”....They look up, with their pale and sunken faces,And their look is dread to see,For they mind you of the angels in their 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 deeperThan the strong man in his wrath.”
Do you hear the children weeping, O my brothers,Ere the sorrow comes with years?They are leaning their young heads against their mothers—Andthatcannot stop their tears.The young lambs are bleating in the meadows;The young birds are chirping in the nest:The young fawns are playing in the shadows;The young flowers are blowing toward the west—But the young, young children, O my brothers,They are weeping bitterly!They are weeping in the playtime of the others,In the country of the free.
Do you hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
Ere the sorrow comes with years?
They are leaning their young heads against their mothers—
Andthatcannot stop their tears.
The young lambs are bleating in the meadows;
The young birds are chirping in the nest:
The young fawns are playing in the shadows;
The young flowers are blowing toward the west—
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
They are weeping bitterly!
They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
In the country of the free.
Do you question the young children in the sorrowWhy their tears are falling so?The old man may weep for his to-morrowWhich is lost in Long Ago;The old tree is leafless in the forest,The old year is ending in the frost,The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest,The old hope is hardest to be lost:But the young, young children, O my brothers,Do you ask them why they standWeeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,In our happy Fatherland?
Do you question the young children in the sorrow
Why their tears are falling so?
The old man may weep for his to-morrow
Which is lost in Long Ago;
The old tree is leafless in the forest,
The old year is ending in the frost,
The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest,
The old hope is hardest to be lost:
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
Do you ask them why they stand
Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,
In our happy Fatherland?
They look up with their pale and sunken faces,And their looks are sad to see,For the man’s hoary anguish draws and pressesDown the cheeks of infancy;“Your old earth,” they say, “is very dreary,Our young feet,” they say, “are very weak;Few paces we have to ken, yet are weary—Our grave-rest is very far to seek.Ask the old 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”....
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 we have to ken, yet are weary—
Our grave-rest is very far to seek.
Ask the old 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”....
“For oh,” say the children, “we are weary,And we cannot run or leap;If we cared for any meadows, it were merelyTo drop down in them and sleep.Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping,We fall upon our faces, trying to go;And, underneath our eyelids heavy drooping,The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.For all day long we drag our burden tiringThrough the coal-dark, underground,Or, all day we drive the wheels of ironIn the factories, round and round.
“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 eyelids heavy drooping,
The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.
For all day long 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 head, with pulses burning,And the walls turn in their places:Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling,Turns the 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 today!’”....
“For, all day the wheels are droning, turning;
Their wind comes in our faces,
Till our hearts turn, our head, with pulses burning,
And the walls turn in their places:
Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling,
Turns the 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 today!’”....
They look up, with their pale and sunken faces,And their look is dread to see,For they mind you of the angels in their 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 deeperThan the strong man in his wrath.”
They look up, with their pale and sunken faces,
And their look is dread to see,
For they mind you of the angels in their 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.”