Classic Poem

Far in the sunlit eastward
Toil is heavy as ours
And a lonely man stood toiling
Through the yellow evening hours.

Afar in the ancient twilight
Man's life was a task as here
And a patient man stood working
Through the wheels of the night drew near.

By the roof and bench of the workshop
The mallet's weight he wields
And the ring of his blows in measure,
Ring over the lonely fields

A tattered youth of the village
A child of the sons of Shem
Three roods of stones and thistle
From the streets of Bethlehem.

The fiery fragrant lilies
Like banners broaden and flame
But he reads not in them a legend
He sees not in them a claim

The ravens thicken, thronging
The bleak blue skies with noise
But he sees not in them the simple
In God's broad barns rejoice.

The throats of the west yawn burning
The eve, like a race of crimes
Drowns blood in blood for a sunset
But he sees not the signs of the times.

The cornfields seethe, unrolling
Their golden treasuries
But he sees not tares nor harvest
Only his work he sees

His brow with sweat is stained
With the sweat that burns and drips
But not in the windy garden
With the fire-cup at his lips

His hands with nails are wounded
But not with the nails that rend
When the sun is masked by darkness
And a great cry speaketh the end:

He sees not the empires breaking
The floods of the world's new birth
Nor the deathless purpose in heaven
Nor the golden city on Earth

His thoughts and eyes look downward,
Down on the lifeless wood
He looks on the thing he maketh
And beholds that it is good.