Yea, this vicarious toiler at the plow
Gives that fine pallor to my lady’s brow.
And idle armies with their boom and blare,
Flinging their foolish glory on the air—
He hides their nakedness, he gives them bed,
And by his alms their hungry mouths are fed.
Not his the lurching of an aimless clod,
For with the august gesture of a god—
A gesture that is question and command—
He hurls the bread of nations from his hand;