The young fawns are playing with the shadows;
The young flowers are blowing toward the West:
But the young, young children, O my brothers!
They are weeping bitterly,—
They are weeping in the play-time of the others,
In the country of the free.
They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their looks are sad to see;
For the man’s grief abhorrent draws and presses
Down the cheeks of infancy.”