Women must weep :: :: University of Virginia Library

Up from the London night,
Out from the London day,
Where the toilers for existence fight,
Under the dim and dreary light
That is shed upon decay,
And the things that pass away;
Over the wrangling and the rush,
Of the multitudes hurrying to and fro,
With the heavy wheels that crush
From the face its virgin flush,
As the dead and living funerals go,
And the reapers reap what they darkly sow;
Comes the helpless children's cry,
From the bruised and broken heart,
As the baby-wings, that fain would fly
To the home of their happy native sky,
Flutter in baby art,
Failing before they start.

O the pretty baby things,
Pretty beneath their dirt,
As they stretch their tiny tender wings
To the light of heaven that round them clings,
Though they are with sorrow girt,
And the threatening thunder skirt;
Pretty beneath the festering rags,
And the sore disease that dwarfs and mars,
While the hunger dogs and drags
Down, as the footstep lags,
And the staring eyes that were God's own stars,
Like captives strain through their iron bars;
Pretty unto the end,
In the gaslight and the gin,
Though their shoulders with strange burdens bend,
And the tottering paces still descend,
As they daily grow more thin
Into the hell of sin.

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Above the conquering shout
And the ruin'd gamester's curse,
From the trembling lips that plead and pout,
As the troubled breath sobs in and out,
Where the mother is no nurse,
And the pocket is no purse;
Across the waves of the festal song,
While the wealthy drink and dance and jest,
With the treasure wrung in wrong
By the pitiless hand and strong,
Where all is the blazon of the best,
And the diamond's flash on beauty's breast;
Comes the suffering children's cry,
That is nothing but a voice,
That goes on when the weeping has run dry,
And the tear-drops fall not though they try,
When they sigh without a choice,
And the devils yet rejoice.

Tangled with fun and feast,
With the laughter and the love,
Comes the babbling no man heeds the least,
Of child that is tortured more than beast,
As the bride puts on her glove,
And the costly veil above;
Comes the starved and stammering moan for aid
From the poor white baby-mouth, that pines
For the lips in mercy laid
On the forehead not afraid,
With the long caress that fondly twines,
And the look that as revelation shines;
Comes the dying children's wail,
Through the mocking strife and mirth,
As with famine, blows, and oaths they ail,
Till the wounded spirits faint and fail,
In their ghastly prison girth,
That were doom'd before their birth.