Classic Poem

I here salute the sturdy sons of toil
Whom from my soul I honour and revere.
To whose strong hands earth renders up her spoil,
From mine and factory, to golden ear.
From earth's dark womb e'en to her smiling breast,
You win her fruits, and her rich tribute bring,
From ocean throbbing with her deep unrest,
To virgin forests which with your axes ring.
All labour has my unalloy'd respect,
In town or country—city as in field.
In labourers I see The Great Elect.
To ye the gates of Paradise will yield!
“God loves the plain people” said that man of men—
Lincoln—“For he made so many of them.”