And deadens the throb and the pain.
For Labor is always blind,
Unless as the light of the deed
The Angel is smiling behind.
‘Effort and effort,’ she cries,
‘Up with the lark and the dew,
Still with the dew and the stars,
This is the heart beat of life,
Feel it athrob in the earth.’
Man and Labor, Woman and Love as the star and inspiration of man in all his work—what nobler dignity could any poet give to Woman, and what other consolation of philosophy could he conceive and sing that would, as it does, for men more surely