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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=383949" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Cry Of The Children</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,<br> Ere the sorrow comes with years?<br>They are leaning their young heads against their mothers---<br> And that cannot stop their tears.<br>The young lambs are bleating in the meadows;<br> The young birds are chirping in the nest;<br>The young fawns are playing with the shadows;<br> The young flowers are blowing toward the west---<br>But the young, young children, O my brothers,<br> They are weeping bitterly!---<br>They are weeping in the playtime of the others<br> In the country of the free.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Do you question the young children in the sorrow,<br> Why their tears are falling so?---<br>The old man may weep for his to-morrow<br> Which is lost in Long Ago---<br>The old tree is leafless in the forest---<br> The old year is ending in the frost---<br>The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest---<br> The old hope is hardest to be lost:<br>But the young, young children, O my brothers,<br> Do you ask them why they stand<br>Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,<br> In our happy Fatherland?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They look up with their pale and sunken faces,<br> And their looks are sad to see,<br>For the man's grief abhorrent, draws and presses<br> Down the cheeks of infancy---<br>'Your old earth,' they say, 'is very dreary;'<br> 'Our young feet,' they say, 'are very weak!<br>Few paces have we taken, yet are wearyÑ<br> Our grave-rest is very far to seek.<br>Ask the old why they weep, and not the children,<br> For the outside earth is cold,---<br>And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering,<br> And the graves are for the old.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'True,' say the young children, 'it may happen<br> That we die before our time.<br>Little Alice died last year---the grave is shapen<br> Like a snowball, in the rime.<br>We looked into the pit prepared to take her---<br> Was no room for any work in the close clay:<br>From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her<br> Crying, 'Get up, little Alice! it is day.'<br>If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower,<br> With your ear down, little Alice never cries!---<br>Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her,<br> For the smile has time for growing in her eyes---<br>And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in<br> The shroud, by the kirk-chime!<br>It is good when it happens,' say the children,<br> 'That we die before our time.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking<br> Death in life, as best to have!<br>They are binding up their hearts away from breaking,<br> With a cerement from the grave.<br>Go out, children, from the mine and from the city---<br> Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do---<br>Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty---<br> Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through!<br>But they answer, 'Are your cowslips of the meadows<br> Like our weeds anear the mine?<br>Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows,<br> From your pleasures fair and fine!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'For oh,' say the children, 'we are weary,<br> And we cannot run or leap---<br>If we cared for any meadows, it were merely<br> To drop down in them and sleep.<br>Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping---<br> We fall upon our faces, trying to go;<br>And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping,<br> The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.<br>For, all day, we drag our burden tiring,<br> Through the coal-dark, underground---<br>Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron<br> In the factories, round and round.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'For, all day, the wheels are droning, turning,---<br> Their wind comes in our faces,---<br>Till our hearts turn,---our head, with pulses burning,<br> And the walls turn in their places---<br>Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling---<br> Turns the long light that droppeth down the wall---<br>Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling---<br> All are turning, all the day, and we with all.---<br>And, all day, the iron wheels are droning;<br> And sometimes we could pray,<br>'O ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad moaning)<br> 'Stop! be silent for to-day!' '</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ay! be silent! Let them hear each other breathing<br> For a moment, mouth to mouth---<br>Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing<br> Of their tender human youth!<br>Let them feel that this cold metallic motion<br> Is not all the life God fashions or reveals---<br>Let them prove their inward souls against the notion<br> That they live in you, os under you, O wheels!---<br>Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward,<br> Grinding life down from its mark;<br>And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward,<br> Spin on blindly in the dark.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now, tell the poor young children, O my brothers,<br> To look up to Him and pray---<br>So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others,<br> Will bless them another day.<br>They answer, 'Who is God that He should hear us,<br> White the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred?<br>When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us<br> Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word!<br>And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding)<br> Strangers speaking at the door:<br>Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him,<br> Hears our weeping any more?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Two words, indeed, of praying we remember,<br> And at midnight's hour of harm,---<br>'Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber,<br> We say softly for a charm.<br>We know no other words except 'Our Father,'<br> And we think that, in some pause of angels' song,<br>God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather,<br> And hold both within His right hand which is strong.<br>'Our Father!' If He heard us, He would surely<br> (For they call Him good and mild)<br>Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely,<br> 'Come and rest with me, my child.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'But no!' say the children, weeping faster,<br> 'He is speechless as a stone;<br>And they tell us, of His image is the master<br> Who commands us to work on.<br>Go to!' say the children,---'Up in Heaven,<br> Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find.<br>Do not mock us; grief has made us unbelieving---<br> We look up for God, but tears have made us blind.'<br>Do you hear the children weeping and disproving,<br> O my brothers, what ye preach?<br>For God's possible is taught by His world's loving---<br> And the children doubt of each.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And well may the children weep before you;<br> They are weary ere they run;<br>They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory<br> Which is brighter than the sun:<br>They know the grief of man, but not the wisdom;<br> They sink in man's despair, without its calm---<br>Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom,---<br> Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm,---<br>Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly<br> No dear remembrance keep,---<br>Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly:<br> Let them weep! let them weep!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They look up, with their pale and sunken faces,<br> And their look is dread to see,<br>For they mind you of their angels in their places,<br> With eyes meant for Deity;---<br>'How long,' they say, 'how long, O cruel nation,<br> Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart,<br>Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,<br> And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?<br>Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants,<br> And your purple shows yo}r path;<br>But the child's sob curseth deeper in the silence<br> Than the strong man in his wrath!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Elizabeth+Barrett+Browning">Elizabeth Barrett Browning</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=383949" data-title="The Cry Of The Children de Elizabeth Barrett Browning" data-description="Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
 Ere the sorrow comes with years?
They are leaning their young heads against their mothers---
 And that cannot stop their tears.
The young lambs are bleating in the meadows;
 The young birds are chir..."></div>
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