What can the children in cities do,
The children shut in from wholesome sport—
The children that live, all winter through,
In the dark little flat at the end of the court?
Yet a comfort they have (and a beautiful one!),
Though the days are chill and the days are short;
At noon, for a moment, looks in the sun,
In the dark little flat at the end of the court.
Then, the dazzled baby drops his toy,
Down tumbles the four-year-old's tottering fort—
"Sunshine!" they all cry out, in their joy,
In the dark little flat at the end of the court.