One day a Toiler walking home among a crowd of men
At sunset viewed a wondrous sight, and called the Other Ten:
“An artist has been here to-day since we went in the mill;
He's made the housetops all aflame, and every window sill
Is shining round the burning glass that glows with brands of fire;
His brush has left a crimson sky and colored every spire;
The grass is painted brighter green, and every dusty leaf
That silent hangs upon the tree is sketched in bold relief.”
“Just hear poor Dan; he's raving mad,” called out the Other Ten.
“We'll see him home, he's gone, all right, he'll not be back again.”
And then they laughed full hideously, and mocking, jeered at him,
Till pale he grew, and scarlet turned, then, as before, was grim:
The Other Ten, whose dusty coats encased ten dusty souls,
Had snuffed the kindling flame of light with jeers and coarse cajoles.
O busy men of mart and mill, O men of shop and street,
May never you their sin commit when you some brother meet
Who, having seen a spark from God, tells forth the wondrous sight,
But finds the soul snatched from his words, and from his spark, the light.
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