They that have wrought the end unthought
Be neither saint nor sage,
But only men who did the work
For which they drew the wage.
Wherefore to these the Fates shall bend
(And all old idle things—)
Wherefore on these shall Power attend
Beyond the grip of kings:
Each in his place, by right, not grace,
Shall rule his heritage—
The men who simply do the work
For which they draw the wage.
Not such as scorn the loitering street,
Or waste to earn its praise,
Their noontide's unreturning heat
About their morning ways;
But such as dower each mortgaged hour
Alike with clean couràge—
Even the men who do the work
For which they draw the wage—
Men, like to Gods, that do the work
For which they draw the wage—
Begin—continue—close that work
For which they draw the wage!
THE SONG OF THE LATHES
1918
(Being the words of the tune hummed at her lathe by Mrs. L.Embsay, widow.)
The fans and the beltings they roar round me.
The power is shaking the floor round me
Till the lathes pick up their duty and the midnight-shift takes over.
It is good for me to be here!
