Sculptors have carved for us stories in stone,--
Spirits of gods from the chrysalis freeing;
Toiled for us, starved for us, dying unknown,
Still have they sought for the infinite being,
Calling it Beauty,--upbuilding its throne.
And this is the guerdon each bears to his tomb:
"Fortune is fickle, the saddest and gladdest
"Slumber as long as the meanest and maddest--
"Naught hast thou wraught so enduring as doom."
Painters have drawn for us marvellous lines,
Hues of the rainbow, and sunset, and morning--
Pigments an innermost glory divines,
Laurelled, or stultified canvas adorning;
Toiled for us, drunk for us bitterest wines,
And this is the guerdon each bears to his tomb:
"Fortune is fickle--the saddest and gladdest
"Slumber as long as the meanest and maddest
"Naught hast thou drawn so enduring as doom."
Poets have sung for us sweetest of song,
Aye, they have sung for us, limn'd for us, carved for us.
Laurell'd our fortune, and lightened our wrong--
Still have they dreamed for us, toiled for us, starved for us--
We are their passion's most fanciful throng--
And this is the guerdon each bears to his tomb:
"Fortune is fickle--the saddest, and gladdest,
"Slumber as long as the meanest and maddest,
"Naught hast thou sung so enduring as doom."