The Earth Voice And Its Answer

I plucked a fair flower that grew     In the shadow of summer's green trees -                     A rose petalled flower,                     Of all in the bower,             Best beloved of the bee and the breeze     I plucked it, and kissed it, and called it my own -             This beautiful, beautiful flower     That alone in the cool, tender shadow had grown,             Fairest and first in the bower             Then a murmur I heard at my feet -             A pensive and sorrowful sound,                     And I stooped me to hear,                     While tear after tear             Rained down from my eyes to the ground,                     As I, listening, heard                     This sorrowful word,             So breathing of anguish profound: -             "I have gathered the fairest and best,     I have gathered the rarest and sweetest,                     My life-blood I've given                     As an off'ring to Heaven     In this flower, of all flowers the completest                     Through the long, quiet night,                     With the pale stars in sight, -                     Through the sun-lighted day                     Of the balm-breathing May,     I have toiled on, in silence, to bring                     To perfection this beautiful flower,                     The pride of the blossoming bower -     The queenliest blossom of spring.             "But I am forgotten; - none heed     Me - the brown soil where it grew,                     That drank in by day                     The sun's blessed ray,     And gathered at twilight the dew; -             That fed it by night and by day             With nectar drops slowly distilled                 In the secret alembic of earth,             And diffused through each delicate vein             Till the sunbeams were charmed to remain,             Entranced in a dream of delight,             Stealing in with their arrows of light             Through the calyx of delicate green,             The close-folded petals between,             Down into its warm hidden heart -             Until, with an ecstatic start             At the rapture, so wondrous and new,             That throbbed at its innermost heart,             Wide opened the beautiful eyes,             And lo! with a sudden surprise             Caught the glance of the glorious sun -             The ardent and worshipful one -             Looking down from his heavenly place,     And the blush of delighted surprise     Remained in its warm glowing dyes,             Evermore on that radiant face             "Then mortals, in worshipful mood,     Bent over my wonderful flower,             And called it 'the fairest,'             The richest, the rarest,     The pride of the blossoming bower             But I am forgotten. Ah me!                 I, the brown soil where it grew,             That cherished and nourished             The stem where it flourished,                 And fed it with sunshine and dew             "O Man! will it always be thus? -     Will you take the rich gifts that are given             By the tireless workers of earth,             By the bountiful Father in heaven,                     And, intent on the worth of the gift,                     Never think of the maker, the giver? -     Of the long patient effort, - the thought             That secretly grew in the brain             Of the Poet to measure and strain,     Till it burst on your ear, richly fraught             With the rapturous sweetness of song? -             What availeth it, then, that ye toil,     You, thought's patient producers, to be             Unloved and unprized,             Trodden down and despised     By those whom you toil for, like me -     Forgotten and trampled like me? - "     Then my heart made indignant reply,             In spite of my fast falling tears -             In spite of the wearisome years             Of toil unrequited that lay     In the track of the past, and the way         Thorn-girded I'd trod in those years -             "So be it, if so it must be! -                     May I know that the thing                     I so patiently bring     From the depths of the heart and the brain,             A creature of beauty goes forth,         Midst the hideous phantoms that press     And crowd the lone paths of this work-weary life,     Midst the labor and care, the temptation and strife,             To gladden and comfort and bless!             "So be it, if so it must be! -                     May I know that the thing                     I so patiently bring     From the depths of the heart and the brain,             Goes forth with a conquerors might,     Through the gloom of this turbulent world,             Potent for truth and for right,     Where truth has so often been hurled                     'Neath the feet of the throng -                     The hurrying, passionate throng! -             "What matter though I be forgot,             Since toil is itself a delight? -                 Since the power to do,                 To the soul that is true,     Is the uttered command of the Lord             To labor and faint not, but still                 To pursue and achieve,                 And ever believe.     That ACHIEVEMENT ALONE IS REWARD!"