Squalid street after squalid street,
Endless rows of them, each the same,
Black dust under your weary feet,
Dust upon every face you meet,
Dust in their hearts, too,—or so it seems—
Dust in the place of dreams.
Spring in her beauty thrills and thrives,
Here men hardly have heard her name.
Work is the end and aim of their lives—
Work, work, work! for their children and wives;
Work for a life which, when it is won,
Is the saddest thing 'neath the sun!
Work—one dark and incessant round
In black dull workshops, out of the light;
Work that others' ease may abound,
Work that delight for them may be found,
Work without hope, without pause, without peace,
That only in death can cease.
Brothers, who live glad lives in the sun,
What of these men, at work in the night?
God will ask you what you have done;
Their lives be required of you—every one—
Ye, who were glad and who liked life well,
While they did your work—in hell!