Classic Poem

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, by your leave!

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 young! 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. "