O F my city the worst that men will ever say is this:



You took little children away from the sun and the dew,



And the glimmers that played in the grass under the great sky,



And the reckless rain; you put them between walls



To work, broken and smothered, for bread and wages,



To eat dust in their throats and die empty-hearted



For a little handful of pay on a few Saturday nights.









