  THOUSANDS of childish ears, rough chidden, Never a sweet bird-note have heard, Deep in the leafy woodland hidden Dies, unlistened to, many a bird. For small soiled hands in the sordid city Blossoms open and die unbreathed; For feet unwashed by the tears of pity Streams around meadows of green are wreathed. Warm, unrevelled in, still they wander, Summer breezes out in the fields; Scarcely noticed, the green months squander All the wealth that the summer yields. Ah, the pain of it! Ah, the pity! Opulent stretch the country skies Over solitudes, while in the city Starving for beauty are childish eyes. |
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