Wan hands that never grasped a flower,
Ears stranger to the wild bird’s song,
To rule, where shall they find the power?
How wage life’s battle, right the wrong?
When the great hour of duty comes,
How shall they meet the mighty toil,
Whose blood is tainted by the slums,
Whose ears know but the street’s turmoil?
Succor the children of the street,
And teach them in the fields to play,
Nor let them in the stifling heat
Of crowded cities fade away;
That, when we drop the thread of life
And, dreamless, sleep beneath the sod,
They may be ready for the strife
That brings this planet nearer God.