WHILE the blessed daylight lingers, let us work with might and main,
with our busy feet and fingers, also with the busy brain; let the
setting sun behold us tired, but filled with honest pride; for the night
will soon enfold us, when we lay our tools aside. When we’re in the
churchyard lonely, where the weeping willows lean, there’s one thing and
one thing only that will keep our memory green. If we did the tasks
appointed as we lived our speeding years, then our graves will be
anointed with a mourning legion’s tears. All our good intentions perish
when is closed the coffin lid, and the world will only cherish and
remember what we did. Nothing granite, monumental, can preserve your
little fame; epitaphs are incidental, and will not embalm your name.
Nothing counts when you are sleeping, but the goodly work you’ve done;
that will last till gods are weeping round the ruins of the sun. Let no
obstacles confound us, let us work till day is o’er; soon the night will
gather round us, when we’ll sleep to work no more.
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