To A Dejected Poet
Thy gift, if that it be of God,
Thou hast no warrant to appraise,
Nor say: 'Here part, O Muse, our ways,
The road too stony to be trod.'
Not thine to call the labor hard
And the reward inadequate.
Who haggles o'er his hire with Fate
Is better bargainer than bard.
What! count the effort labor lost
When thy good angel holds the reed?
It were a sorry thing indeed
To stay him till thy palm be crossed.
'The laborer is worthy'-nay,
The sacred ministry of song
Is rapture!-'t were a grievous wrong
To fix a wages-rate for play.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Related quotes
What Are You Laboring For?
What do you labor for my friend; what is your purpose in the end?
Do you labor for a present need, or do you just work to succeed?
Do you punch in a clock for men, to then work eight hours or ten?
Do you put forth effort each day, in a place that you’ll never stay?
These can be asked by all of us, until these bodies return to dust.
But what about time men spend, towards an eternity with no end?
Maybe many aren’t mindful of, the priorities from The Lord above,
Priorities God has for you and me, which extend well into eternity.
When men stand before The Lord, what about all the labor before,
Done while on this earthly sphere, all labored for what down here?
When this life upon earth is past, what in eternity for you will last?
Will all of the effort made by us, simply be blown away like dust?
All of this life is futile, my friend, when your life comes to an end,
Except all of the labor done, for Jesus Christ, God’s Eternal Son.
Wages we don’t get from The Lord, but, from Him, eternal reward,
It’s not only lasting, but its worth, far exceeds the wages on earth.
So why continue to labor in vain, when you can have eternal gain?
Acknowledge God in all you do, and watch what God does in you,
As He stores you treasure above, He fills you with desire and love,
To serve His Son unceasingly, as He prepares us for life eternally.
To Doctor Lang
Little, perhaps, thou valuest verse of mine—
Little hast read of what my hand has wrought,
Yet I with thy brave memory would entwine
The muse’s amaranths. For thou well hast fought
For freedom; well her sacred lessons taught;
Well baffled wrong; and delved with far design
Into those elements where treasures shine
Excelling those wherewith our hills are fraught.
And when thy glorious grey head shall make
One spot all-hallowed for the coming days—
Tombed in the golden land for whose sole sake
With labour thou hast furrowed all thy ways,—
Well a young nation shall thy worth appraise
Even through the grief which then shall o’er thee break
poem by Charles Harpur
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Jesus, Thou Divine Companion
Jesus, Thou divine Companion,
By Thy lowly human birth
Thou hast come to join the workers,
Burden bearers of the earth.
Thou, the Carpenter of Nazareth,
Toiling for Thy daily food,
By Thy patience and Thy courage,
Thou hast taught us toil is good.
They who tread the path of labor
Follow where Thy feet have trod;
They who work without complaining
Do the holy will of God.
Thou, the Peace that passeth knowledge,
Dwellest in the daily strife;
Thou, the Bread of heaven, broken
In the sacrament of life.
Every task, however simple,
Sets the soul that does it free;
Every deed of love and kindness
Done to man is done to Thee.
Jesus, Thou divine Companion,
Help us all to do our best;
Bless in our daily labor,
Lead us to the Sabbath rest.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Two Ways To Play
Somethin' crossed my mind again
You were in my eyes
It was somewhere out by Bombay
And I'm tellin' all those lies
I've been there and you've been there
And there ain't no mistake
We could take it anyway
But the one thing we can't fake
There's just two ways to play
Just two ways to play
And I don't want to stay
There's just two ways to play
And I'm gonna play it right, this time
Yeah
There's always the easy numbers
There's those hard ways too
There's those cheaters blunders
It's either one of two
But fortune telling's mezmorizing
In the game of chance
But rollin' dice ain't sympathizing
When you play romance
There's just two ways to play
Just two ways to play
And I don't want to stay
There's just two ways to play
I can't control the numbers
I can't control your sexy ways
I can't control my inner thunder
It makes me want????????
Two ways to play
There's Just two ways to play
There's just two ways to play
There's just two ways to play
I'm gonna play it right this time
There's two ways to play
There's just two ways to play
Two ways to play
There's just two ways to play
And I don't want to stay
There's just two ways to play
song performed by by ZZ Top
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Lute, Awake
My labor that thou and I shall waste
And end that I have now begun,
For when this song is sung and past,
My lute, be still, for I have done.
As to be heard where ear is none,
As lead to grave in marble stone,
My song may pierce her heart as soon.
Should we then sigh or sing or moan?
No, no, my lute, for I have done.
Proud of the spoil that thou hast got
Of simple hearts through love's shot,
By whom, unkind, thou hast them won,
Think not he hath his bow forgot,
Although my lute and I have done.
Vengance shall fall on thy disdain
That makest but game on earnest pain;
Think not alone under the sun
Unquit to cause thy lovers plain
Although my lute and I have done.
Perchance thee lie withered and old
The winter nights that are so cold,
Plaining in vain unto the moon;
Thy wishes then dare not be told.
Care then who list, for I have done.
And then may chance thee to repent
The time that thou hast lost and spnt
To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon;
Then shalt thou know beauty but lent,
And wish and want as I have done.
Now cease, my lute, this is the last
Labor that thou and I shall waste
And ended is that we begun.
Now is the song both sung and past;
My lute, be still, for I have done.
poem by Sir Thomas Wyatt
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Fate; not the only thing to depend upon
All we have some desires
Some wishes and ambitions of our own
But when it cannot be achieved
We say, we are unlucky
But fate is not the only thing to depend upon
So why it is said 'Man is the Architect of his own fate? '
Surely there should be no doubt about it
Need to keep faith and increase our confidence level
Need hard effort and labor
As 'Industry is the key to success'
So man can achieve his desires
By not depending on fate
But by trying and working hard all time.
poem by Z.I. Mahmud
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Hymn after Receiving Holy Communion
I HAVE Thee now, O Jesu,
Enshrined within my soul,
In all Thy love and fulness,
With power to make me whole.
Though cold and so unworthy,
5
Though weak and stained with sin,
I opened to Thee, Jesu,
And Thou hast entered in.
I have Thee now, O Jesu!
And oh, the thrill divine
10
To feel that Thou art in me,
To know that Thou art mine!
I have Thee, too, O Jesu,
As pledge of future bliss;
But faith is lost in wonder
15
At rapture more than this.
I have Thee now, O Jesu!
Purge all my dross away,
Light up my inmost being
With Thy full flood of day;
20
Do Thou, O Lord, shine through me
In all my words and ways,
Till others catch Thy glory,
And join in endless praise.
I have Thee now, O Jesu!
25
Oh, never more depart!
Grant that no fresh offences
Shall drive Thee from my heart;
Till down the long dark valley,
The path which Thou hast trod,
30
There dawns in cloudless splendour
The vision of my God.
Amen.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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The Song Of The Wage-Slave
When the long, long day is over, and the Big Boss gives me my pay,
I hope that it won't be hell-fire, as some of the parsons say.
And I hope that it won't be heaven, with some of the parsons I've met --
All I want is just quiet, just to rest and forget.
Look at my face, toil-furrowed; look at my calloused hands;
Master, I've done Thy bidding, wrought in Thy many lands --
Wrought for the little masters, big-bellied they be, and rich;
I've done their desire for a daily hire, and I die like a dog in a ditch.
I have used the strength Thou hast given, Thou knowest I did not shirk;
Threescore years of labor -- Thine be the long day's work.
And now, Big Master, I'm broken and bent and twisted and scarred,
But I've held my job, and Thou knowest, and Thou will not judge me hard.
Thou knowest my sins are many, and often I've played the fool --
Whiskey and cards and women, they made me the devil's tool.
I was just like a child with money; I flung it away with a curse,
Feasting a fawning parasite, or glutting a harlot's purse;
Then back to the woods repentant, back to the mill or the mine,
I, the worker of workers, everything in my line.
Everything hard but headwork (I'd no more brains than a kid),
A brute with brute strength to labor, doing as I was bid;
Living in camps with men-folk, a lonely and loveless life;
Never knew kiss of sweetheart, never caress of wife.
A brute with brute strength to labor, and they were so far above --
Yet I'd gladly have gone to the gallows for one little look of Love.
I, with the strength of two men, savage and shy and wild --
Yet how I'd ha' treasured a woman, and the sweet, warm kiss of a child!
Well, 'tis Thy world, and Thou knowest. I blaspheme and my ways be rude;
But I've lived my life as I found it, and I've done my best to be good;
I, the primitive toiler, half naked and grimed to the eyes,
Sweating it deep in their ditches, swining it stark in their styes;
Hurling down forests before me, spanning tumultuous streams;
Down in the ditch building o'er me palaces fairer than dreams;
Boring the rock to the ore-bed, driving the road through the fen,
Resolute, dumb, uncomplaining, a man in a world of men.
Master, I've filled my contract, wrought in Thy many lands;
Not by my sins wilt Thou judge me, but by the work of my hands.
Master, I've done Thy bidding, and the light is low in the west,
And the long, long shift is over . . . Master, I've earned it -- Rest.
poem by Robert William Service
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The Clay
Thou shalt do what Thou wilt with thine own hand,
Thou form'st the spirit like the moulded clay;
For those who love Thee keep thy just command,
And in thine image grow as they obey;
New tints and forms with every hour they take
Whose life is fashioned by thy spirit's power;
The crimson dawn is round them when they wake,
And golden triumphs wait the evening hour;
The queenly-sceptred night their souls receives,
And spreads their pillows 'neath her sable tent;
Above them Sleep their palm with poppy weaves,
Sweet rest Thou hast to all who labor lent;
That they may rise refreshed to light again
And with Thee gather in the whitening grain.
poem by Jones Very
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When money is controlled by a few it gives that few an undue power and control over labor and the resources of the country. Labor will have its best return when the laborer can control its disposal.
quote by Leland Stanford
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nothing is so envied as genius, nothing so hopeless of attainment by labor alone. Though labor always accompanies the greatest genius, without the intellectual gift labor alone will do little.
quote by B.R. Hayden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The tendency of taxation is to create a class of persons who do not labor, to take from those who do labor the produce of that labor, and to give it to those who do not labor.
quote by William Cobbett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet: A Poet’s Greatness
Most lucky, thou art, O Bard and winged Muse!
After thy death, thy soul remains on earth;
Thy God-giv’n gift- how well thou put to use!
And through thy passionate poems gave mirth.
Maybe, thy stay short wasn’t comfortable,
And thy heart got plunged in sadness so oft;
Maybe, thou had to live in a stable!
In God’s heart, thou shall have a corner soft.
What truths thou writ in poems beauteous!
What good advice thou rendered to live life!
How well thou showed men ought to be righteous!
How soothing balm, thou bestowed men in strife!
O great soul, thine place in Heaven’s assured,
O fisherman of souls, thy rest tho’ measured.
poem by John Celes
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Sonnet LII: What? Dost Thou Mean
What? Dost thou mean to cheat me of my heart?
To take all mine and give me none again?
Or have thine eyes such magic or that art
That what they get they ever do retain?
Play not the tyrant, but take some remorse;
Rebate thy spleen, if but for pity's sake;
Or, cruel, if thou canst not, let us 'scourse,
And, for one piece of thine, my whole heart take.
But what of pity do I speak to thee,
Whose breast is proof against complaint or prayer?
Or can I think what my reward shall be
From that proud beauty, which was my betrayer?
What talk I of a heart, when thou hast none?
Or, if thou hast, it is a flinty one.
poem by Michael Drayton
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To A Rich Vulgarian
Fragments 35, 67, 81, 72, 68 combined.
Thou fool — that thou shouldst plume thyself
On rich attire, on jewel-hoard,
On dross of thine ill-gotten pelf,
On carcanet and flashing ring,
On meats and wines that load thy board!
Ay, cup on cup past numbering
Thou drainest with the drunken! Fool,
Who hast not learnt in wisdom's school
That wealth is an accursed thing
Dislinked from goodness! Only when
These twain are wedded, happiness
True and abiding comes to bless
The fleeting life of dying men.
Fool! — yet not as in wrath I speak:
Not I on thee would vengeance wreak.
A quiet spirit dwells in me
That scorns to bruise such worms as thee.
Nay, but the inevitable Fate
Even now decrees thine after-state: —
When thou art dead, so shalt thou lie
Ever: thy very name shall die.
Thy sordid story not outlast
Thy burial; for no part thou hast
In Song-land's roses, whose perfume
Breathes life immortal, o'er the tomb
Triumphant. Unregarded all
Shalt thou stray lost in Hades' hall
Amidst the fameless dead forlorn,
A vile, ignoble thing of scorn!
Though Pot I am, I am Thine Pot!
Potter, Potter, making clay-pot!
Did you make me misshap’n somewhat?
Was it perhaps done on purpose?
Should I blame myself for my cross?
Perhaps, I was untimely born,
Or made in haste, Thine shop adorn!
May be Thine mood was not that good,
When Thou made me out of mere clod!
Perhaps, the mix was rather wrong,
Or else Thou sang a sadder song!
Perhaps, water salty was used;
And so I crack’d a bit when baked!
May be, I wasn’t well baked at all;
Or baked too much: suff’red a fall!
Perhaps, the hearth was not quite hot;
Perhaps, it was my own dear fault.
How do I serve Thee still? I muse;
Though handicapped, could Thou me use?
Could Thou recast my misshap’n form,
So that I can most well perform?
Could thou alter my bizarre look,
Before people think I’m a spook?
Or will I be trampled by men,
Even before I say, ‘Amen! ’
Whatev’r my fate turns out to be,
Let me serve Thee most happily!
May be, I can’t be thine pot sought;
Though pot I am, I am Thine pot!
Though pot I am, I am Thine pot!
poem by John Celes
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Capital is a result of labor, and is used by labor to assist it in further production. Labor is the active and initial force, and labor is therefore the employer of capital.
quote by Henry George
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love's Labor Lost
It’s been a long, lonesome struggle…
towards the end of life
I find myself in circles
as if - love’s labor lost
You keep coming and going away
in myriad dreams and dithering thoughts
agonizing tears wet my soul…
how could I’ve loved you so much!
Those sparkling eyes
that voice of yours
have never let me down
in fantasies, when reality speaks…
dreams are all over
as if: love’s labor lost
You were never there for me
how could you, when you were hers
you loved her, she loved you back
what a sweet story…
for you, it may be
for me, love’s labor lost
Falling in love was easy
consequences unthought of…
your mesmerizing aura
made me forget how reality bites –
and it does bite hard!
Just as death draws nearer
my destiny’s games are over
It made a fool of me
gave me all but you...
My thirst for your love remains
an unfulfilled wish, a dying desire
perishing off with this body...
Yes – it truly is love’s labor lost!
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Hymn of Futility
Lord, Thou hast given unto us a land.
In Thy beneficence Thou has ordained
That we should hold a country great and grand,
Such as no race of old has ever gained.
A favoured people, basking in Thy smile:
So dost Thou leave us to work out our fate;
But, Lord, be patient yet a little while.
The shade is pleasing and our task is great.
Lo, Thou hast said: 'This land I give to you
To be the cradle of a mighty race,
Who shall take up the White Man's task anew,
And all the nations of the world outpace.
No heritage for cowards or for slaves,
Here is a mission for the brave, the strong.
Then see ye to it, lest dishonoured graves
Bear witness that he tarried overlong.'
Lo, Thou hast said: 'When ye have toiled and tilled,
When ye have borne the heat, and wisely sown,
And every corner of the vineyard filled
With goodly growth, the land shall be your own.
Then shall your sons and your sons' sons rejoice.
Then shall the race speak with a conqueror's mouth;
And all the world shall hearken to its voice,
And heed the great White Nation of the South.'
And Thou hast said: 'This, striving, shall ye do.
Be diligent to tend and guard the soil.
If this great heritage I trust to you
Be worth the purchase of a meed of toil,
Then shall ye not, at call of game or mart,
Forgo the labour of a single day.
They spurn the gift who treasure but a part.
Guard ye the whole, lest all be cast away!
'Say, is My bounty worth the winning?' (Lord,
So hast thou spoken. Humbly have we heard.)
'No son of man is born who can afford
To pay Me tribute with an empty word.
Guard ye the treasure if the gift be meet.
Win ye to strength and wisdom while ye may.
For he who fears the burden and the heat
Shall gain the wages of a squandered day!'
Lord, we have heard….Loud our Hosannas rang!
Voices of glad thanksgiving did we lift.
From out the fullness of our hearts we sang
Sweet hymns of praise for this Thy gracious gift.
Here, in one corner of the land, we found
A goodly garden, where abundant food
We won, with scanty labor, from the ground.
Here did we rest. And, Lord, we found it good!
Great cities have we builded here, 0 Lord;
And corn and kine full plenty for our need
We have; and cloth the wondrous land afford
Treasure beyond the wildest dreams of greed.
Even this tiny portion of Thy gift,
One corner of our mightly continent,
Doth please us well. A voice in prayer we lift:
'Lord, give us peace! For we are well content.'
Lord, give us peace; for Thou has sent a sign:
Smoke of a raider's ships athwart the sky!
Nay, suffer us to hold this gift of Thine!
The burden, Lord! The burden-by and by!
The sun is hot, Lord, and the way is long!
'Tis pleasant in this corner Thou has blest.
Leave us to tarry here with wine and song.
Our little corner, Lord! Guard Thou the rest!
But yesterday our fathers hither came,
Rovers and strangers on a foreign strand.
Must we, for their neglect, bear all the blame?
Nay, Master, we have come to love our land!
But see, the task Thou givest us is great;
The load is heavy and the way is long!
Hold Thou our enemy without the gate;
When we have rested then shall we be strong.
Lord, Thou hast spoken… And, with hands to ears,
We would shut out the thunder of Thy voice
That in the nightwatch wakes our sudden fears
'The day is here, and yours must be the choice.
Will ye be slaves and shun the task of men?
Will ye be weak who may be brave and strong?'
We wave our banners boastfully, and then,
Weakly we answer, 'Lord, the way is long!'
'Time tarries not, but here ye tarry yet,
The futile masters of a continent,
Guard ye the gift I gave? Do ye forget?'
And still we answer, 'Lord, we are content.
Fat have we grown upon this goodly soil,
A little while he patient, Lord, and wait.
To-morrow and to-morrow will we toil.
The shade is pleasing, Lord! Our task is great!'
But ever through the clamour of the mart,
And ever on the playground through the cheers:
'He spurns the gift who guardeth but a part'
So cloth the warning fall on heedless cars.
'Guard ye the treasure if the gift be meet'
(Loudly we call the odds, we cheer the play.)
'For he who fears the burden and the heat
Shall glean the harvest of a squandered day.'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Roman Girl's Song
Rome, Rome! thou art no more
As thou hast been!
On thy seven hills of yore
Thou satst a queen.
Thou hadst thy triumphs then
Purpling the street,
Leaders and sceptred men
Bow'd at thy feet.
They that thy mantle wore,
As gods were seen–
Rome, Rome! thou art no more
As thou hast been!
Rome! thine imperial brow
Never shall rise:
What hast thou left thee now?
Thou hast thy skies!
Blue, deeply blue, they are,
Gloriously bright!
Veiling thy wastes afar
With colour'd light.
Thou hast the sunset's glow,
Rome, for thy dower,
Flushing tall cypress-bough,
Temple and tower!
And all sweet sounds are thine,
Lovely to hear,
While night, o'er tomb and shrine,
Rests darkly clear.
Many a solemn hymn,
By starlight sung,
Sweeps thro' the arches dim,
Thy wrecks among.
Many a flute's low swell,
On thy soft air
Lingers, and loves to dwell
With summer there.
Thou hast the South's rich gift
Of sudden song,
A charmed fountain, swift,
Joyous, and strong.
Thou hast fair forms that move
With queenly tread;
Thou hast proud fanes above
Thy mighty dead.
Yet wears thy Tiber's shore
A mournful mien:
Rome, Rome! thou art no more
As thou hast been!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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