WORK.

Like coral insects multitudinous

The minutes are whereof our life is made.

They build it up as in the deep's blue shade

It grows, it comes to light, and then, and thus

For both there is an end. The populous

Sea-blossoms close, our minutes that have paid

Life's debt of work are spent; the work is laid

Before our feet that shall come after us.

We may not stay to watch if it will speed,

The bard if on some luter's string his song

Live sweetly yet; the hero if his star

Doth shine. Work is its own best earthly meed,

Else have we none more than the sea-born throng

Who wrought those marvellous isles that bloom afar.