HERE toil the striplings, who should be a-swarm In open, sun-kissed meadows; and each day Amid the monstrous murmur of the looms That still their treble voices, they become Tiny automata, mockeries of youth: To her that suckled them, to him whose name They bear, mere fellow-earners of Life's bread: No time for tenderness, no place for smiles, -- These be the world's wee workers, if you please! Naught is more piteous underneath the sky Than at the scant noon hour to see them play Feebly, without abandon or delight At some poor game; so grave they seem and crushed! The gong! and foulness sucks them in once more. Yet still the message wonderful rings clear Above all clang of commerce and of mart: "Suffer the little children," and again: "My Kingdom is made up of such as these." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE STATUE AND THE BUST by ROBERT BROWNING HOHENLINDEN by THOMAS CAMPBELL SUMMER IN ENGLAND, 1914 by ALICE MEYNELL INLAND by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY SONNET: GHOSTS by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH A DEFIANCE, RETURNING TO THE PLACE OF HIS PAST AMOURS by PHILIP AYRES |