UNHONOURED WORK
So that no day from dawn to darkness stands,
Then passes from your door with empty hands,
What though the world should grant you no acclaim?
The worth of what is done is still the same.
Men sought of old a wand that would invoke
Desire’s fulfilment by a single stroke,
A magic Sesame, some potent word
That Fortune needs must yield to when she heard.
But never thus are any wonders wrought,
Save in the happy fairy-realm of thought,
Here, where no harvest crowns the field unsown,
Nor word nor wand avails, but work alone.
Strength builds in silence. Lo! without a sound,
Or on the heights or in the deeps profound,
All Nature toils with mightier arts than ours,
And only man is clamorous of his powers.
His work fulfils its purpose, high or low,
But he, not great enough to leave it so,
Stoops from his loftiest labour and delays
For some poor guerdon of his fellows’ praise,
Yet sees the little worth of such a prize,
What folly wears the honours of the wise,
What tinsel passes current for pure gold,
What juggling for a marvel, while, behold!—
The shining worlds of heaven, the growth of earth
Through every mystic change of death and birth—
Coming and going with a noiseless pace,
The miracles of God seem commonplace.