Corn to haul in and stalks to bind and stack,
Potatoes and apples to be snugly pitted;
Of urgent work to-day there is no lack;
To every hour a needful task is fitted.
To honest labour I must bow my back,
But still that back is cheerfully submitted;
And what is more, if I could spare a minute,
I'd show you that there's philosophy in it.
Driving afield, the splendour of the day
Charms like a mighty masterpiece of art:
The fields and woods all stripped to sober grey,
The golden sunshine flooding every part.
Surely the hours will blithely slip away
And joy of life will throb in every heart—
So chants the poet, but the toiler knows
The world he works in is a world of prose.
All day with diligence that men applaud
I picked the golden ears and bore them in;
The world was fair, the south wind was abroad
Offering me joys I could not stop to win.
Yet was I well contented to defraud
My soul of all the beauty there had been;
This heavy price it is our fate to pay
To win our freedom for another day.
Poets there are who sing with frenzied passion
Of endless toil, who never felt its bane;
To call it glorious is now the fashion,
Drowning with song man's wretchedness and pain
My Pegasus I'll never lay the lash on,
Pursuing such a folly-bitten strain;
I say, and say it boldly to your face,
That needless labour is a foul disgrace.
Labour that knows the seedtime and its hope,
And waits the harvest with a trusting soul—
Strong in its faith with every ill to cope,
Trusting in God and his benign control—
Scorning the slavery in which they grope,
Blind and defeated, who make wealth their goal—
Such would I sing for he who looks may see
The end of labour is to make men free.
And being free, with clothing, food, and shelter,
What, that is toil-bought, would you envy more?
Why should you struggle in the human welter?
Why should you sink when you were meant to soar?
Life has been made a hurried helter-skelter
Of aimless effort without guiding lore.
Believe me, friend, though you have wealth past measure,
Living itself is life's completest treasure.
If some good people would but take the time
To look about them they would be surprised
To find their house of life is more sublime
Than poet ever feigned or sage surmised.
Stop and look forth! It will not be a crime!
And if you think I have not well advised—
Preferring some one who of toiling proses—
Back to the grindstone with your stupid noses.
Our fathers toiled, but in a glorious fight,
The God of nations led them by the hand,
With pillared smoke by day and fire by night
They wrought like heroes in their Promised Land;
The wilderness was conquered by their might,
They made for God the marvel he had planned—
A land of homes where toil could make men free,
The final masterpiece of Destiny.
How can I rest when they will not be still?
When every wind is vocal and their sighs
Breathe to my ear from every funeral hill
And from each field where one forgotten lies?
They haunt my steps and burden me until
I plead with hands outstretched and streaming eyes:
"I am not worthy! Let my lips be dumb!
The mighty song and singer yet shall come!"
The well-greaved Greeks and Priam's savage brood
Were not more worthy of immortal song
Than these in homespun, who alone withstood
Hunger and Fear to make our Freedom strong;
But till the singer comes, at least the good
They wrought we must from age to age prolong:
Learning from them, let this our watchword be:
Free from all tyrants from yourselves be free!