Labor

WHOSE work is then divinest? His who moulds
With pallid finger the dark, ignorant clay,
Making new radiance, as dawn goldens day,—
Or his, for whom the hollow pipe enfolds
Magic to melt the moon in tenderness, —
Or his, whose orient memory in sad hours
Shows color on north seas grown lustreless,
While he but dreams on Persia’s purple towers, —
Or his, who pours out life upon a song ?
Ah ! weak is toil as foam upon blown beaches,
Unless the might of love shall make us strong,
And weak our statues and sweet reedy reaches,
Unless our love keep tideless overflow
Round even the lowliest blossom earth can show.