THE workman, in my new abode, now spreads the luscious plaster; he hums
a blithe and cheerful ode, and labors fast and faster. I stand and watch
him as he works, I stand and watch and ponder; I mark how skillfully he
jerks the plaster here and yonder. “This plaster will be here,” he
cries, “unbroken and unshredded, when you sing anthems in the skies—if
that’s where you are headed.” How good to feel, as on we strive, in this
bright world enchanted, that what we do will be alive when we are dead
and planted! For this the poet racks his brain (and not for coin or
rubies) until he finds he’s gone insane and has to join the boobies. For
this the painter plies his brush and spreads his yellow ochre, to find,
when comes life’s twilight hush, that Fame’s an artful joker. For this
the singer sprains her throat, and burns the midnight candle, and tries
to reach a higher note than Ellen Yaw could handle. For this the actor
rants and barks, the poor old welkin stabbin’, and takes the part of
Lawyer Marks in Uncle Tommy’s Cabin. Alas, my labors will not last! In
vain my rhythmic rages! I cannot make my plaster plast so it will stick
for ages!
[Illustration]
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