And your life-blood never dull;

But fail at the sword or the plowshare,

Or fall at the forge or the wheel,

And ye only mar earth's bosom

With a wound that her dust will heal.

[9]

Hither ye bring your workmen,

And it's ever the tale retold

Of the useless tools of the builders,

Battered and broken and old;

Hither ye bring them and lay them,

And go when your prayers are said,

For the blood of your living is dearer

Than the idle dust of your dead.

They were three old men with hoary hair

And beards of wintry gray,

And they shouldered their spades, for their work was done,

And they left behind at the set of sun

A grave in the yellow clay.

[10]

 Prev. P 12/90 next