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HYMN OF FUTILITY
"Time tarries not, but here ye tarry yet,
The futile masters of a continent,
Guard ye the gift I gave? Do ye forget?"
And still we answer, "Lord, we are content.
Fat have we grown upon this goodly soil.
A little while be patient, Lord, and wait.
To-morrow and to-morrow will we toil.
The shade is pleasing, Lord! Our task is great!"
But ever through the clamour of the mart,
And ever on the playground through the cheers:
"He spurns the gift who guardeth but a part"—
So doth the warning fall on heedless ears.
"Guard ye the treasure if the gift be meet"—
(Loudly we call the odds, we cheer the play.)
"For he who fears the burden and the heat
Shall glean the harvest of a squandered day."
