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I
- IN all my work, in all the children’s play,
- I hear the ceaseless hum of London near;
- It cries to me, I cannot choose but hear
- Its never‐ending wail, by night and day.
- So many millions—is it vain to pray
- That all may win such peace as I have here,
- With books, and work, and little children dear?—
- That flowers like mine may grow along their way?
- Through all my happy life I hear the cry,
- The exceeding bitter cry of human pain,
- And shudder as the deathless wail sweeps by.
- I can do nothing—even hope in vain
- That the bright light of peace and purity
- In those lost souls may ever shine again!
