We work to turn our hopes to certainties,—
For gold, or gear, or favor in men’s eyes.”
And all the while the goal toward which we strain—
Up hill and down, in sunshine and in rain,
Heedless of toil, if so we may attain—
Is but a lure, a heavenly-set decoy
To exercised endeavor, full employ
Of every power, which is man’s highest joy.
And work becomes the end, reward the means,
To woo us from our idleness and dreams;