You sneer at me, and cry forsooth—
Because within my heart I hold
This visage grim, and form uncouth,
Better than beauty, or than gold.

Why prate of things that have no charm
To stay the withering breath of age?
Lo, here within this brawny arm,
I hold what can all griefs assuage.

The subtle mechanism of thought,
That grows to fruitage in the brain,
By this strong hand to shape is wrought,
Until it stands complete and plain.

I know that beauty gladdens life,
That wealth and comfort are allied,
And yet, why fill the hours with strife,
Because they will not seek my side?

Shall I, because the days are long,
And toil with each more weary grows,
Say that the birds have lost their song?
And find no fragrance in the rose?

The purpose of my life is this,
To make each hour its treasure yield,
Even though some passing joy I miss,
While busy in the harvest field.

And what at last will be my loss,
If from the gloom of stormy lands,
And waves that high in fury toss,
I win my way to sunlit sands?

Ah, if life's purpose I fulfill,
What more can potentate or king,
Who see men bow before their will,
Unto the bar of judgment bring?

In that new land to which we win,
He leads, who gathers while he can,
In ways beset with strife and sin,
The stature of a noble man.

Rough and uncouth in speech and form,
I hold within that gift divine—
A heart with tender passion warm—
Whose treasure then is more than mine?

Sneer if you will, yea, scoff and laugh,
But what have you I cannot save
When from death's sombre flood we quaff,
And find the level of the grave?