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!
