Ah me!
I, the brown soil where it grew,
That cherished and nourished
The stem where it flourished,
And fed it with sunshine and dew
"O Man! will it always be thus?--
Will you take the rich gifts that are given
By the tireless workers of earth,
By the bountiful Father in heaven,
And, intent on the worth of the gift,
Never think of the maker, the giver?--
Of the long patient effort,--the thought
That secretly grew in the brain
Of the Poet to measure and strain,
Till it burst on your ear, richly fraught
With the rapturous sweetness of song?--
What availeth it, then, that ye toil,
You, thought's patient producers, to be
Unloved and unprized,
Trodden down and despised
By those whom you toil for, like me--
Forgotten and trampled like me?--"
Then my heart made indignant reply,
In spite of my fast falling tears--
In spite of the wearisome years
Of toil unrequited that lay
In the track of the past, and the way
Thorn-girded I'd trod in those years--
"So be it, if so it _must_ be!--
May I know that the thing
I so patiently bring
From the depths of the heart and the brain,
A creature of _beauty_ goes forth,
Midst the hideous phantoms that press
And crowd the lone paths of this work-weary life,
Midst the labor and care, the temptation and strife,
To gladden and comfort and bless!
"So be it, if so it _must_ be!--
May I know that the thing
I so patiently bring
From the depths of the heart and the brain,
Goes forth with a conquerors might,
Through the gloom of this turbulent world,
Potent for truth and for right,
Where truth has so often been hurled
'Neath the feet of the throng--
The hurrying, passionate throng!--
"What matter though I _be_ forgot,
Since toil is itself a delight?--
Since the _power_ to do,
To the soul that is true,
Is the uttered command of the Lord
To labor and faint not, but still
To pursue and achieve,
And ever believe.
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