Nor woman mild nor happy child
Greets him when day is done;
And he walks the night, a poison blight,
An outcast of the sun




=The Children of the Looms=


Oh, what are these that plod the road
At dawn's first hour and evening's chime,
Each back bent as beneath a load;
Each sallow face afoul with grime?
Nay, what are these whose little feet
Scarce bear theme on to toil or bed!
Do hearts within their bosoms beat?
Surely, 'twere better that they were dead.

Babes are they, domed to cruel dooms.
Who labor all the livelong day;
Who stand beside the roaring looms
Nor ever turn their eyes away;
Like parts of those machines of steel:
Like wheels that whirl, like shuttles thrown;
Without the power to dream or feel;
With all of childishness.

Brothers and sisters of the flowers,