Classic Poem

The work is done, and from the fingers fall
The bloodwarm tools that brought the labour thro'
The tasking eye that overrunneth all
Rests, and affirms there is no more to do.
Now the third joy of making, the sweet flower
Of blessed work, bloometh in godlike spirit;
Which whoso plucketh holdeth for an hour
The shrivelling vanity of mortal merit.

And thou, my perfect work, thou'rt of to-day;
To-morrow a poor and alien thing wilt be,
True only should the swift life stand at stay
Therefore farewell, nor look to bide with me.
Go find thy friends, if there be one to love thee;
Casting thee forth, my child, I rise above thee.