What then of us, we humble fiddling folk, Who do not plough the field, nor weld the tool? Whose beauty-chastened singing never spoke Doom for the stumbling, over-burdened fool? We choose the only path that we can see, Heedless of dark and cold, hunger and thirst, Travailing in our wrenching misery: Beauty must flower, though the soil be curst. And as we dull, the marble wakes to form, The canvas glows, the air is singing wonder; And beauty, borne on wings of terrible storm, Tramples the souls of faithless mortals under, To shine serene with a still deathless gleaming Till the last mind forget its final dreaming. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...POST-MORTEM by EMILY DICKINSON NEW FRIENDS AND OLD FRIENDS by JOSEPH PARRY FOUR SONGS BY WAY OF CHORUS TO A PLAY: 2. FEMININE HONOURS by THOMAS CAREW SONGS OF THE SEA CHILDREN: 66 by BLISS CARMAN THE BRIMMING CUP by REITA M. CLAPSADDLE |