Classic Poem

Two men I honor and no third. First, the toilworn craftsman that with earth-made implements laboriously conquers the earth and makes her man's.

Venerable to me is the hard hand.

Venerable too is the rugged face. Oh, but the more venerable for thy rudeness, and even because we must pity as well as love thee!

Hardly entreated brother! For us was thy back so bent.

It is not because of his toils that I lament for the poor. The poor is hungry and athirst, but for him also there is food and drink.

He is heavy laden and weary; but for him also the heavens send sleep.

What I do mourn over is that the lamp of his soul should go out. Alas, while the body stands so broad and brawny, must the soul lie blinded, dwarfed, stupefied, almost annihilated!

That there should one man die ignorant who had capacity for knowledge, this I call a tragedy.

A second man I honor, and still more highly: him who is seen toiling for the spiritually indispensable; not daily bread but the Bread of Life.

Is not he too in his duty?

(He is) not earthly craftsman only, but inspired thinker, who with heaven-made implement conquers heaven for us.

These two, in all their degrees, I honor; all else is chaff and dust.