我的弟兄们，你听见孩子们的哭泣吗，在悲哀随年岁而来之前。他们把幼小的头靠在母亲的身上——这也止不住他们的眼泪。小羊羔在草地上咩咩叫;小鸟在巢里叽叽喳喳;小鹿在阴影中玩耍;年轻的花朵正在向西方吹去——但是年幼的孩子们，啊，我的兄弟们，他们正在伤心地哭泣!在自由的国度里，他们在别人的游戏时间里哭泣。你是否会问那些悲伤中的孩子，为什么他们的眼泪会这样落下?老人也许会为他早已失去的明天而哭泣;森林里的老树光秃秃的;旧年在霜冻中结束;旧的伤口，如果受伤，是最痛的;旧的希望是最难失去的;但是年幼的孩子们，啊，我的兄弟们，你可曾问过他们，为什么站在他们母亲的怀里痛苦地哭泣，在我们幸福的祖国?他们抬起头来，脸色苍白，深陷，他们的表情是悲伤的，因为男人的悲伤令人憎恶，把婴儿的脸颊拉下来——“你们的老地球，”他们说，“是非常沉闷的;”“我们年轻的脚，”他们说，“太弱了! Few paces have we taken, yet are wearyÑ 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. "True," say the young children, "it may happen That we die before our time. Little Alice died last year---the 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." 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 head, 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!' " 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 God fashions or reveals--- Let them prove their inward souls against the notion That they live in you, os under you, O wheels!--- Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, Grinding life down from its mark; And the children's souls, which God 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 God that He should hear us, White the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred? When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word! And w