Brother of toil! what nobler theme Could Homer, Dante, Milton dream Than just this homely commonplace That weaves the substance of our days? Aloft the stately headed pines May lift their proud serrated lines Far to the face of heaven, and mock The lightning's flash, the tempest's shock. Unless, deep grubbing in the ground, The toughly crawling roots were found; Unless those miners in the dark Dug food for fibre, leaf, and bark; Unless those tendrils all unknown Kept a good grip on soil and stone -- Where would the pompous branches be That silly poets solely see? Ours be the grubbing in the dirt, The strain that wears, the tasks that hurt. Ours be the part of pallid roots, While others pose as purple fruits. Last shall be first, in God's great plan, O humble working artisan! In heaven the happy roots behold Treasured in soil of shining gold; After the stress and the strain of their strife, Set in the bank of the River of Life! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WHY I WRITE NOT OF LOVE by BEN JONSON A HOLIDAY by LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE EVERYONE SANG by SIEGFRIED SASSOON POLYHYMNIA: L'ENVOY by WILLIAM BASSE THE GULF by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 16 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH SONGS FOR MY MOTHER: 4. HER STORIES by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH |