TOIL on, poor muser, to attain that goal Where Art conceals its grandest, noblest prize; Count every tear that dims your aching eyes, Count all the years that seem as days, and roll The death-tides slowly on; count all your sighs; Search the wide, wondrous earth from pole to pole, Tear unbelief from out your martyred soul; Succumb not, chase despondency, be wise; Work, toil, and struggle with the brush or pen, Revel in rhyme, strain intellect and ken; Live on and hope despite man's sceptic leers; Praise the Ideal with your every breath, Give it life, youth and glory, blood and tears, And to possess it pay its tribute -- Death. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...UPON WEDLOCK, AND DEATH OF CHILDREN by EDWARD TAYLOR I'M DYING, COMRADE by MARY H. C. BOOTH RHAPSODY by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE THE CATHEDRAL OF SWALLOWS by RHYS CARPENTER THE ANTIPLATONIC by JOHN CLEVELAND OLNEY HYMNS: 32. THE SHINING LIGHT by WILLIAM COWPER TALE: 1. THE DUMB ORATORS; OR, THE BENEFIT OF SOCIETY by GEORGE CRABBE |