n times of rest he knows no guest--
No hand will touch him, none!
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,
Fit playmates of the bird and bee.
For you grow soft the springtime hours;
For you the shade lies neath the tree.
For you life smiles the whole day long;
For you she breathes each breath in bliss,
And turns all sound into song;
And you, and you have come to this!

Is't not enough that man should toil
To fill the hands that clutch for gold?
Is't not enough that women toil.
And in life's summertime grow old?
Is't not enough that death should pale
To see men welcome him as rest;
But must the children drudge and fall,
And perish on the mothers breast?

See, lovers, wed at tender eve;
See, mothers, with your new-born young;
See, fathers--if you can, believe;
From infant blood, lo, wealth is wrung!
See homes; see towns; see cities; states;
Earth, show it to the skies above!
Lovers who pass through rapture's gates,
Are these, are these your fruits of love?

O man who boast your lands subdued,
Your conquered air, your oceans tamed,
Who mold all nature to your mood,
Look on these babes and be ashamed!
Dull looks from out each weary face,
Cold words upon each little tongue--
Dead lives that know not childhoods grace,
Grown old before they can be young.

Hear, world of Mammon, brutal, bold,
Goring with life the maw of greed,
Measuring everything by gold;
The good deed with the evil deed--
The pangs of suffering childhoods care,
Now coined in coins to fill a purse,
These things shall haunt you everywhere,
And rest upon you for a curse!

=The Hymn of Labor=

The world was made with labo