To thy work, heart that aches,
To thy soul's best work.
Let not the bitter hour
Stab with its grim dirk.

Unto thy toil; and if the world
Want not thy voice to-day,
Grieve not, thine hour will come,
Love is not waste alway.

Art that grows from love
Of beauty, life's high dream,
Will not utterly vanish out,
As weed-drift on a stream.

Not one sunbeam is lost,
Though it vanish in a cave.
And He, great Master of Mystery,
Will redeem the gift He gave.