Poems About Work

The Village Blacksmith

His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The Village Blacksmith

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by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

Work While You Work

by M. A. Stodart

Work while you work,
Play while you play,
That is the way
To be cheerful and gay.

All that you do,
Do with your might;
Things done by halves
Are never done right.

One thing each time,
And that done well,
Is a very good rule,
As wise men tell.

Moments are useless,
Trifled away;
So work while you work,
And play while you play.

The Best Firm

by Walter G. Doty

A pretty good firm is "Watch & Waite,"
And another is "Attit, Early & Layte;"
And still another is "Doo & Dairet;"
But the best is probably "Grinn & Barrett."

A Question

by Anonymous

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When work is harassing
And driving you mad,
And not enough patience
And strength to be had,
I'll give you a medicine
Fairly sublime:
Just get a bottle of
"Oneatatime."

Take "Oneatatime," brother.
Soon you will find
Quiet serenity
Filling your mind;
Heaps of accomplishment
Swiftly will climb,
Moved by the magic of
"Oneatatime."

The Cheery Chewink

A worker's challenge bold and free,
The alto call of industry...
He shouts his slogan clear and strong,
And glorifies his work with song.

- Amos Russel Wells
The Cheery Chewink

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by Amos Russel Wells

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"Chewink! Chewink!" a sprightly sound
Ringing across the bushy ground,
A worker's challenge bold and free,
The alto call of industry.

Deep in the underbrush is heard
The scratching of the busy bird;
Behold, with energetic heaves,
Both feet at once, he flings the leaves.

But ever, pausing on the brink
Of new descent—Chewink! Chewink!—
He shouts his slogan clear and strong,
And glorifies his work with song.

No dreary drudgery for him,
A very dandy happy and trim,
With black and white and ruddy brown,
The smartest gentleman in town!

Ah, brother toilers, bent and worn
Beneath your burdens all forlorn,
Your work's a martyrdom, you think?
Just hear that bird: "Chewink! Chewink!"

The Solitary Reaper

by William Wordsworth

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Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of Travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again!

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;—
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

Hunt a Busy Man

by Anonymous

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"If you've a job that you want done,"
So runs a saying grim,
"Just find the busiest man you can,
And give the task to him."

Of all the wicked schemes devised
By laziness and fat,
The wickedest, the cruelest,
The shamefulest, is that!

The man who says that wicked thing
Some day will surely go
To most appropriate punishment
Administered below.

Upon his groaning form bestowed,
A weight of iron shall rest,
And ever with increasing loads
His body shall be pressed.

"Now here's another little weight,"
The fiends will say with vim;
"And here's an over-loaded man;
So lay the weight on him."

Ten New Committees

by Amos Russel Wells

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Ten new committees, vigorous and fine;
One was too ambitious, and then there were nine.

Nine new committees, zealous and elate;
One got offended, and then there were eight.

Eight new committees, laboring for heaven;
One got to shirking, and then there were seven.

Seven new committees, "putting in best licks";
One found it tedious, and then there were six.

Six new committees, looking all alive;
One went to sleep, and then there were five.

Five new committees, keeping up their score;
One became "too busy," and then there were four.

Four new committees, bright as bright could be;
One became careless, and then there were three.

Three new committees, hunting things to do;
One thought it couldn't, and then there were two.

Two new committees, proud of good things done;
One grew "so tired," and then there was one.

One new committee, holding on for fun;
Fun got exhausted, and there was—none.

I worked for chaff, and earning wheat

by Emily Dickinson

I worked for chaff, and earning wheat
Was haughty and betrayed.
What right had fields to arbitrate
In matters ratified?

I tasted wheat, — and hated chaff,
And thanked the ample friend;
Wisdom is more becoming viewed
At distance than at hand.

Something Left Undone

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Labor with what zeal we will,
Something still remains undone,
Something uncompleted still
Waits the rising of the sun.
By the bedside, on the stair,
At the threshold, near the gates,
With its menace or its prayer,
Like a mendicant it waits;
Waits, and will not go away;
Waits, and will not be gainsaid;
By the cares of yesterday
Each to-day is heavier made;
Till at length the burden seems
Greater than our strength can bear,
Heavy as the weight of dreams,
Pressing on us everywhere.
And we stand from day to day,
Like the dwarfs of times gone by,
Who, as Northern legends say,
On their shoulders held the sky.

Perseverance

Life's field will yield as we make it
A harvest of thorns or of flowers.

- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Perseverance

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by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

We must not hope to be mowers,
And to gather the ripe gold ears,
Unless we have first been sowers
And watered the furrows with tears.

It is not just as we take it,
This mystical world of ours,
Life's field will yield as we make it
A harvest of thorns or of flowers.

Remember this: Whoever sows sparingly will also reap sparingly, and whoever sows generously will also reap generously.

– 2 Corinthians 9:6
The Bible, NIV

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The Builders

All are architects of Fate,
Working in these walls of Time;

- The Builders
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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All are architects of Fate,
Working in these walls of Time;
Some with massive deeds and great,
Some with ornaments of rhyme.

Nothing useless is, or low;
Each thing in its place is best;
And what seems but idle show
Strengthens and supports the rest.

For the structure that we raise,
Time is with materials filled;
Our to-days and yesterdays
Are the blocks with which we build.

Truly shape and fashion these;
Leave no yawning gaps between;
Think not, because no man sees,
Such things will remain unseen.

In the elder days of Art,
Builders wrought with greatest care
Each minute and unseen part;
For the Gods see everywhere.

Let us do our work as well,
Both the unseen and the seen;
Make the house, where Gods may dwell,
Beautiful, entire, and clean.

Else our lives are incomplete,
Standing in these walls of Time,
Broken stairways, where the feet
Stumble as they seek to climb.

Build to-day, then, strong and sure,
With a firm and ample base;
And ascending and secure
Shall to-morrow find its place.

Thus alone can we attain
To those turrets, where the eye
Sees the world as one vast plain,
And one boundless reach of sky.

By the grace God has given me, I laid a foundation as a wise builder, and someone else is building on it. But each one should build with care.

– 1 Corinthians 3:10
The Bible, NIV

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Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters,

– Colossians 3:23
The Bible, NIV

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Mystery

by Dudley Hughes Davis

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A little brook, with beauties grand,
Comes rippling from a mountain spring,
And winds its way o'er stone and sand
Through woods where birds melodious sing.

Through time unknown to days of man,
This murmuring stream has found its way,
And cut a ravine through the land,
A link in nature's grand display.

And interwoven timber bends
In wreathy arches o'er the walls,
Through which this little brook descends,
To make its leap down o'er the falls.

It rushes down its winding stair,
A bold and sparkling silvery sheet;
It sends its mist into the air,
And forms a rainbow at its feet.

By little streams the chasm cliff
Is worn to grains of drifting sand,
And angry waters foam and drift
Through wonderous wall not made by hand.

And man looks back through time unknown
To date the wonderous streamlet hand,
Which sculptured chasm wall of stone,
And wore its chips to grains of sand.

But could the work a life had done
Be seen by eves of mortal man,
The sands that crumble one by one
Could equal not the busy hand.

Though life is short man, leaves the stage,
As though his wonderous work was done,
Another man, another age,
Proves that his work has just begun.

So like the mystic cataract stream
Which flows a myriad years through sand,
The world's adrift by light and stream,
The work of ages, brain and hand.

A Bit of Pottery

by Anonymous

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The potter stood at his daily work,
One patient foot on the ground,
The other with never-slacking speed.
Turning his swift wheel round.
Silent we stood beside him there
Watching the restless knee,
Till my friend said low, in pitying voice,
“How tired his foot must be!”

The potter never paused in his work,
Shaping the wondrous thing;
’Twas only a common flower-pot,
But perfect in fashioning.
Slowly he raised his patient eyes,
With homely truth inspired:
“No, marm, it isn’t the foot that kicks—
The one that stands gets tired.”

All Have Work to Do

by R. P. S.

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A child went wandering through a wood
Upon a summer day;
She hoped to meet some pretty thing
To join her in her play.

The cloudless sky above was blue,
The grass beneath was green,
And all around were lovely flowers,
The brightest ever seen.

A honey-bee went humming by—
“Stay, little bee!” she cried,
“Oh, do come back and play with me.”
And thus the bee replied:

“I cannot stay, I must away,
And gather in my store,
For winter drear will soon be here,
When I can work no more.”

She heard a pigeon cooing soft
High in the bough above—
“Come down, and play a while with me,
My pretty, gentle dove.”

“I cannot come and play with thee,
For I must guard my nest,
And keep my sleeping children war
Beneath my downy breast."

She saw a squirrel gathering nuts
Upon a tall beech tree—
“I love to see you bound and leap;
Come down and play with me.”

“I dare not play, I must away,
And quickly homeward hie;
Were I to stay, my little ones
For want of food must die.”

She came unto a stream that leaped
Between its rocky banks—
“Stay, pretty stream, and play with me,
And you shall have my thanks.”

The stream replied, while in the pool
A moment it stood still,
“I cannot play, I must away
And drive the village mill.”

The child sat down upon a stone,
And hung her little head:
She wept a while, and sobbed a while,
Then to herself she said:
“The stream, the squirrel, dove and bee
Have all got work to do;
I must not play my hours away—
I must be busy too.”

Labor of Love

by Kate Louise Wheeler

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He planted a tree, on the old home land,
Where the summer sunlight stayed,
Tho' he knew full well he should never stand
'Neath it's fruit and pleasing shade.

He penciled a book, in his life's last year,
When the inspiration came,
Tho' he knew his heart it could never cheer
With it's gold and certain fame.

But the leaves of his tree grew, day by day,
While it's fruit the hungry fed;
And the fruit of his book will ever stay
While it's leaves are daily read.

Chore Time

by Jean Blewett

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When I'm at gran 'dad's on the farm,
I hear along 'bout six o'clock,
Just when I'm feelin' snug an' warm,
"Ho, Bobby, come and feed your stock."

I jump an' get into my clothes;
It's dark as pitch, an' shivers run
All up my back. Now, I suppose
Not many boys would think this fun.

But when we get out to the barn
The greedy pigs begin to squeal,
An' I throw in the yellow corn,
A bushel basket to the meal.

Then I begin to warm right up,
I whistle Yankee Doodle" through.
An' wrastle with the collie pup—
And sometimes gran 'dad whistles too.

The cow-shed door, it makes a din
Each time we swing it open wide;
I run an' flash the lantern in,
There stand the shorthorns side by side.

Their breathin' makes a sort of cloud
Above their heads—there's no frost here.
"My beauties," gran'dad says out loud,
"You'll get your breakfasts, never fear."

When up I climb into the loft
To fill their racks with clover hay,
Their eyes, all sleepy like and soft,
A heap of nice things seem to say.

The red ox shakes his curly head,
An' turns on me a solemn face;
I know he's awful glad his shed
Is such a warm and smelly place.

An' last of all the stable big,
With harness hanging on each door,
I always want to dance a jig
On that old musty, dusty floor.

It seems so good to be alive,
An' tendin' to the sturdy grays,
The sorrels, and old Prince, that's five—
An' Lightfoot with her coaxing ways.

My gran'dad tells me she is mine,
An' I'm that proud! I braid her mane,
An' smooth her sides until they shine,
An' do my best to make her vain.

When we have measured oats for all,
Have slapped the grays upon the flanks,
An' tried to pat the sorrels tall,
An' heard them whinny out their thanks,

We know it's breakfast time, and go
Out past the yellow stacks of straw,
Across the creek that used to flow,
But won't flow now until a thaw.
Behind the trees the sky is pink,
The snow drifts by in fat white flakes.
My gran 'dad says: "Well, Bob, I think
There comes a smell of buckwheat cakes."

Life's Knitting-Work

by Harriet Selden Baker

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My knitting-work I laid aside
When the week was done;
But I took it up again
With Monday's rising sun.

Stitch by stitch, hour by hour,
Through the live-long day,
Do I go the many rounds
Of life's busy way.

But I find that I oft drop
Stitches, here and there,
From my tired hands that are
Burdened so with care.

But each stitch I patiently
Through the meshes draw:
Till my work is once again
Whole, without a flaw!

O that when my life shall close,
And all its acts laid bare,
It might all be found complete—
Perfect everywhere,—

A well-rounded life that should
Receive our Lord's bequest:
"Well done, Faithful, enter in
To my promised rest!"

The Village Blacksmith

by Anna Marie Neis

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Ho! the village blacksmith,
All the live-long day,
The ringing of his anvil,
Wears many hours away.

How manfully he lifts his arm,
And strikes the heavy blow,
The hammer beating perfect time,
As he swings it to and fro.

Listen to the anvil!
The sound is very dear,
As across the little park,
It rings out loud and clear.

'Tis the only chiming sound,
That keeps the village stirring,
For in the quiet little town,
There's nothing much occurring.

On a bright and sunny morning,
When the sky is blue,
And the grass is fresh and green,
And slightly wet with dew.

The farmer boy may be seen
Coming from afar,
With horse to shoe, wagon to fix,
And to get a box of tar.

Then a little chit-chat
In a loud and jolly tone,
The farmer boy hooks up his horse,
And hurries on toward home.

No sooner is he out of sight,
Than others come and go,
Thus keeping the village blacksmith's shop
In a continual glow.

The smith is known for many a mile,
And greatly esteemed it appears,
For he has been the village smith
For five and twenty years.

But things will change as time goes on
And cause us deep despair,
For in the little village shop,
The smith is no more there.

For sickness came as it will to all
Midst pleasure and midst mirth,
And sad to say in three short days
He departed from this earth.

The shock is great to all around,
Even those who knew him not,
His death casts a shadow,
Which will not be soon forgot.

In the quiet little churchyard
The smith was laid low,
Where the green grass and the flowers,
Will soon begin to grow.

The birds will sing their songs
In the bright and genial days,
Near the lonely grave where
The village blacksmith lays.

Do Thine Own Task

by Ellwood Roberts

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Do thine own task; look not to left or right;
Toil on in faith, according to thy light!
Thy neighbor's work is not assigned to thee.
Do thine own task; therewith contented be!

Pay not much heed to others' blame or praise;
Let thy own conscience judge of all thy ways!
The path of duty is the one for all;
Who elsewhere walks, shall stumble oft and fall.

Use well thy time; let neither praise nor blame
Retard thy wise pursuit of lofty aim!
Each has his own appointed work to do,
And sweet reward it brings to toiler true.

Go forth unto the toil assigned to thee,
Resolved to do it, whatsoe'er it be!
And, active, earnest, true and faithful still,
Do thine own task; God's purposes fulfill

A Quaker Maid

by James B. Kenyon

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She sits beneath the trellised vine
Beside the open door;
Warm arabesques of sunlight shine
Along the checkered floor.

Her busy needles wink and glance
As still her task she plies;
By bordered walks the midges dance;
Above, the swallow flies.

Her face is calm; her eyes are meek;
About her smooth young throat,
And lightly blown o'er either cheek,
The silken tendrils float.

Beneath the snow-white kerchief spread
Across her placid breast,
Unvexed by change or darkling dread,
Her spirit lies at rest.

Peace is her world; no thought of ill,
Nor breath of sordid strife,
E'er taints the pure desires that fill
Her cool hushed round of life.

Afar the city roars; there sweeps
The long white way that gleams
For other feet; she sits and keeps
Alone her quiet dreams.

The Bridge Builder

by Will Allen Dromgoole

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An old man going a lone highway,
Came, at the evening cold and gray,
To a chasm vast and deep and wide,
The old man crossed in the twilight dim,
The sullen stream had no fear for him;
But he turned when safe on the other side
And built a bridge to span the tide.

"Old man," said a fellow pilgrim near,
"You are wasting your strength with building here;
Your journey will end with the ending day,
Yon never again will pass this way;
You've crossed the chasm, deep and wide,
Why build this bridge at evening tide?"

The builder lifted his old gray head;
"Good friend, in the path I have come," he said,
"There followed after me to-day
A youth whose feet must pass this way.
This chasm that has been as naught to me
To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be;
He, too, must cross in the twilight dim;
Good friend, I am building this bridge for him!"

Postmen

by Annette Wynne

Some postmen sit inside all day,
Giving lovely things away,
Packages and bundles tied
With the best of things inside,
And letters, too, all clean and white
They hand to you with great delight;
They like to sit there all the day
And give the pleasant things away.
But other postmen walk outside
Along the city far and wide;
They take the bundles that they give
And letters, too, out where you live;
They do not mind the walk at all,
They're pretty strong, and glad and tall;
Such pleasant things some people do,
They must be happy all day through.

A Song from the Suds

by Louisa May Alcott

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Queen of my tub, I merrily sing,
While the white foam rises high,
And sturdily wash, and rinse, and wring,
And fasten the clothes to dry;
Then out in the free fresh air they swing,
Under the sunny sky.

I wish we could wash from our hearts and our souls
The stains of the week away,
And let water and air by their magic make
Ourselves as pure as they;
Then on the earth there would be indeed
A glorious washing-day!

Along the path of a useful life
Will heart's-ease ever bloom;
The busy mind has no time to think
Of sorrow, or care, or gloom;
And anxious thoughts may be swept away
As we busily wield a broom.

I am glad a task to me is given
To labor at day by day;
For it brings me health, and strength, and hope,
And I cheerfully learn to say,—
"Head, you may think; heart, you may feel;
But hand, you shall work alway!"

Every Day Work

by Ellen P. Allerton

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Great deeds are trumpeted; loud bells are rung,
And men turn round to see
The high peaks echo to the peans sung
O'er some great victory.
And yet great deeds are few. The mightiest men
Find opportunities but now and then.

Shall one sit idle through long days of peace,
Waiting for walls to scale?
Or lie in port until some "Golden Fleece"
Lures him to face the gale?
There's work enough: why idly, then, delay?
His work counts most who labors every day.

A torrent sweeps down the mountain's brow,
With foam and Hash and roar.
Anon its strength is spent—where is it now?
Its one short day is o'er.
But the clear stream that through the meadow flows
All the long summer on its mission goes.

Better the steady flow: the torrent's dash
Soon leaves its rent track dry.
Thelightwe love is not a lightning flash
From out a midnight sky.
But the sweet sunshine, whose unfailing ray,
From its calm throne of blue lights every day.

The sweetest lives are those to duty wed—
Whose deeds both great and small,
Are close-knit strands of one unbroken thread,
Where love ennobles all.
The world may sound no trumpets, ring no bells—
The Book of Life the shining record tells.

"Nothing to Do."

by Peter Burn

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"Nothing to do," is labour enough,
To the man of heart, the man of brain;
Better for him, the world to rough,
To toil in hunger, to toil in pain,
Than idly live, with an aimless aim,
Playing out life in a gainless game.

Labour is rest to the man of soul,
The man who treasures the gift of Time;
"Nothing to do," is a sluggard's goal;
A life of ease is a life of crime;
A play with Time is a game of loss,
A staking our all on a gamester's toss.

"Nothing to do," can never be said;
While it is day, there is work to be done!
Work for the pen, and work for the spade—
Work for all workers under the sun;
The call to work is a common call,
A call to be answered by one and by all.

Answer the call with a love and a will,
Be it to heart, or be it to brain;
Be it to battle and conquer an ill,
Be it to comfort a brother in pain;
Whatever it be, to the front of the van!
There is something to do; to thy name—be a man!

Now

by Peter Burn

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Work to-day, wait not to-morrow!
To the golden now attend;
Future joy and future sorrow
On the present hour depend:
Disappointment waits the sluggard,
Coming night reproves our play,
Let us ever upward, onward,
Let us work while it is day.

Much of life is lost in fretting,
We the future clothe with care:
Better far, the past forgetting,
We moved on to brave and dare;
Seasons gone, are gone for ever,
View them not with fond regret;
Fill the present with endeavour,
Great results may bless us yet.

Courage! courage! fainting brother,
Fortune, honour may be won!
Faith shall aid us in our labour—
Hear her voice, "It shall be done!"
Things which tell us of obstruction,
Shall depart before our tread;
If we will them to destruction,
They shall be to us as dead.

Builders

by Peter Burn

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We each and all are builders,
Of station, fortune, life!
The minutes, as they meet us,
With great results are rife;
On self depends the future,
Its sorrow or its joy,
God gives the loaded present,
And bids us it employ.

We each and all are builders!
Say, shall our structure stand,
Resting on Rock-foundation
Or on the shifting sand?
Shall we be idle dreamers—
That what befalls us must?
Or active men and women,
Who to their doings trust?

We each and all are builders!
O wisely then attend
To callings, duties, promptings—
Our lives on these depend;
There lie both stone and mortar
On time's deep-border'd shelves,
And God, the Master-Builder
Helps those who help themselves.

The Glory of the Garden

by Rudyard Kipling

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Our England is a garden that is full of stately views,
Of borders, beds and shrubberies and lawns and avenues,
With statues on the terraces and peacocks strutting by;
But the Glory of the Garden lies in more than meets the eye.

For where the old thick laurels grow, along the thin red wall,
You'll find the tool- and potting-sheds which are the heart of all
The cold-frames and the hot-houses, the dung-pits and the tanks,
The rollers, carts, and drain-pipes, with the barrows and the planks.

And there you'll see the gardeners, the men and 'prentice boys
Told off to do as they are bid and do it without noise;
For, except when seeds are planted and we shout to scare the birds,
The Glory of the Garden it abideth not in words.

And some can pot begonias and some can bud a rose,
And some are hardly fit to trust with anything that grows;
But they can roll and trim the lawns and sift the sand and loam,
For the Glory of the Garden occupieth all who come.

Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made
By singing, "Oh, how beautiful," and sitting in the shade
While better men than we go out and start their working lives
At grubbing weeds from gravel-paths with broken dinner-knives.

There's not a pair of legs so thin, there's not a head so thick,
There's not a hand so weak and white, nor yet a heart so sick
But it can find some needful job that's crying to be done,
For the Glory of the Garden glorifieth every one.

Then seek your job with thankfulness and work till further orders,
If it's only netting strawberries or killing slugs on borders;
And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to harden,
You will find yourself a partner In the Glory of the Garden.

Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees
That half a proper gardener's work is done upon his knees,
So when your work is finished, you can wash your hands and pray
For the Glory of the Garden that it may not pass away!
And the Glory of the Garden it shall never pass away!

Work and Worship

by William Allen Butler

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Full Text

Charlemagne, the mighty monarch,
As through Metten wood he strayed,
Found the holy hermit, Hutto,
Toiling in the forest glade.

In his hand the woodman’s hatchet,
By his side the knife and twine,
There he cut and bound the fagots
From the gnarled and stunted pine.

Well the monarch knew the hermit
For his pious works and cares,
And the wonders which had followed
From his vigils, fasts, and prayers.

Much he marvelled now to see him
Toiling thus, with axe and cord;
And he cried in scorn, “O Father,
Is it thus you serve the Lord?”

But the hermit, resting neither
Hand nor hatchet, meekly said:
“He who does no daily labor
May not ask for daily bread.

“Think not that my graces slumber
While I toil throughout the day;
For all honest work is worship,
And to labor is to pray.

“Think not that the heavenly blessing
From the workman’s hand removes;
Who does best his task appointed,
Him the Master most approves.”

While he spoke the hermit, pausing
For a moment, raised his eyes
Where the overhanging branches
Swayed beneath the sunset skies.

Through the dense and vaulted forest
Straight the level sunbeam came,
Shining like a gilded rafter,
Poised upon a sculptured frame.

Suddenly, with kindling features,
While he breathes a silent prayer,
See, the hermit throws his hatchet,
Lightly, upward in the air.

Bright the well-worn steel is gleaming,
As it flashes through the shade,
And descending, lo! the sunbeam
Holds it dangling by the blade!

“See, my son,” exclaimed the hermit,—
“See the token Heaven has sent;
Thus to humble, patient effort
Faith’s miraculous aid is lent.

“Toiling, hoping, often fainting,
As we labor, Love Divine
Through the shadows pours its sunlight,
Crowns the work, vouchsafes the sign!”

Homeward slowly went the monarch,
Till he reached his palace hall,
Where he strode among his warriors,
He the bravest of them all.

Soon the Benedictine Abbey
Rose beside the hermit’s cell;
He, by royal hands invested,
Ruled, as Abbot, long and well.

Now beside the rushing Danube
Still its ruined walls remain,
Telling of the hermit’s patience
And the zeal of Charlemagne.

Table of Contents

The Village Blacksmith

Work While You Work

The Best Firm

A Question

The Cheery Chewink

The Solitary Reaper

Hunt a Busy Man

Ten New Committees

I worked for chaff, and earning wheat

Something Left Undone

Perseverance

The Builders

Mystery

A Bit of Pottery

All Have Work to Do

Labor of Love

Chore Time

Life's Knitting-Work

The Village Blacksmith

Do Thine Own Task

A Quaker Maid

The Bridge Builder

Postmen

A Song from the Suds

Every Day Work

"Nothing to Do."

Now

Builders

The Glory of the Garden

Work and Worship

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