“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.
Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping,
We fall upon our faces, trying to go;
And, underneath our eyelids heavy drooping,
The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.
For all day long we drag our burden tiring
Through the coal-dark, underground,