THE CHILDREN OF THE TENEMENTS.
(A Plea.)
Poor little feet that have never trod
The soft sweet turf of the country sod,
Poor little eyes that have never seen
The beautiful meadows of gold and green;
What to you are the color and light
That flood the earth from morn till night?
Never a ray of the genial sun
Enters the courts from which you come;
All you see is a patch of blue,
Over the roofs that shelter you;
Only a patch of the infinite sky,
Over the chimneys dark and high;
Never a breath of the country air,
Never a sight of the meadows fair;
Only a narrow, dirty street,
Where the hard stones bruise your little feet;
Poor little feet that would love to roam,
Where the daisies and buttercups make their home,
Or scamper along by the ocean's side,
And dance in the beautiful sparkling tide.
The soft sweet turf of the country sod,
Poor little eyes that have never seen
The beautiful meadows of gold and green;
What to you are the color and light
That flood the earth from morn till night?
Never a ray of the genial sun
Enters the courts from which you come;
All you see is a patch of blue,
Over the roofs that shelter you;
Only a patch of the infinite sky,
Over the chimneys dark and high;
Never a breath of the country air,
Never a sight of the meadows fair;
Only a narrow, dirty street,
Where the hard stones bruise your little feet;
Poor little feet that would love to roam,
Where the daisies and buttercups make their home,
Or scamper along by the ocean's side,
And dance in the beautiful sparkling tide.
75
