How Long Poem by Maria Frances Cecilia Cowper

The weeks go by, the weary weeks go by,
The months are lengthened into years, the years
Are filled with sordid toil, and wet with tears ;
Nor Hell nor Heaven gives relief: the sky
Is brass above our heads, our feeble cry
Goes trembling up to Heaven, and no God hears,
But evermore dull, sullen labour sears
The aching heart, and will not let it die.
How long. Lord, must the sons of labour wait ?
How long must we refrain, and hold our hand ?
Some day the fierce and smouldering spark of hate
Shall of a sudden to a flame be fanned :
Then shall the lords of labour curse their fate,
While anarchy runs riot o'er the land.