Workers
Out of the formless clay the potter moulds his urn;
Out of the block, rough hewn, the sculptor shapes his dream;
Through the blend of the painter's hues the dyes of sunset burn,
And the tints of morning gleam!
Out of the mobile word the poet weaves his rhyme,
As the toiler at the loom watching the shuttle fly,
And lo, there comes a song to lilt in the ear of Time
As the years go winging by!
If ye but bring the zest, the passion-fire at heart,
If ye but feel the glow, if ye but know the thrill,
All of the wonder-world awaits but the worker's art,
Waits but the worker's will!
Out of the block, rough hewn, the sculptor shapes his dream;
Through the blend of the painter's hues the dyes of sunset burn,
And the tints of morning gleam!
Out of the mobile word the poet weaves his rhyme,
As the toiler at the loom watching the shuttle fly,
And lo, there comes a song to lilt in the ear of Time
As the years go winging by!
If ye but bring the zest, the passion-fire at heart,
If ye but feel the glow, if ye but know the thrill,
All of the wonder-world awaits but the worker's art,
Waits but the worker's will!
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