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 is vain
That the bright light of peace and purity
In those lost souls may ever shine again!