Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do—
Pluck your handfuls of the meadow cow-slips pretty—
Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through!
But they answer are your cow-slips of the meadows
Like our weeds anear the mine?
Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows,
From your pleasures fair and fine!
“For oh,” say the children, “we are weary,
And we cannot run or leap;