The young fawns are playing with the shadows,
The young flowers are blooming 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.
“‘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.