Page:Poems Barrett.djvu/242

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!'"

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, or under you, O wheels!—
Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward,
    As if Fate in each were stark;
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,
    That they look to Him and pray—
So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others,
    Will bless them another day.