Wherefore this busy labor without rest? Is it an idle dream to which we cling, Here where a thousand dusky toilers sing Unto the world their hope? "Build we our best, By hand and thought," they cry, "although unblessed." So the great engines throb, and anvils ring, And so the thought is wedded to the thing; But what shall be the end, and what the test? Dear God, we dare not answer, we can see Not many steps ahead, but this we know -- If all our toilsome building is in vain, Availing not to set our manhood free, If envious hate roots out the seed we sow, The South will wear eternally a stain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 26 by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 34. THE DARK GLASS by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI THE MOON by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON WINTER SLEEP by EDITH MATILDA THOMAS PRAYER OF AN UNEMPLOYED MAN by W. C. ACKERLY LAURENCE BLOOMFIELD IN IRELAND: 3. ISAAC BROWN by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM |