THE DOERS

I SEE them ever before me, in street, in alley or lane.
 In seething slums of the city, where silent miseries lurk.
The faces of grim endurance, the eyes of stoical pain,
The stiffened muscles of labor, the rounded shoulders of work.

Sweepers away of forests, workers of all that is wrought,
Delvers in mine and workshop, Doers of all that is done.
Lacking in effort never, all too meager of thought:
Builders and winners of all that is built or won.

Temple, cathedral or war-ship, pyramid, fortress or town,
These have they modeled and molded, then sank to forgotten graves,
Furnishing food for the battles that come of miter and crown,
To perish by generations, like serial waves.

They form in the early morning, at the shriek of the demon steam,
To march in the ranks of labor, with dull, mechanical tread;
They delve in the grimy work-shops like men in a weary dream.
Alas, for the lifelong battle, whose bravest slogan is bread!

The earth is teeming with fullness that springs from the Doers’ hand,
And a little bird is singing, from the roof of a western grange,
A strong heart-stirring epic, that rings throughout the land,
And the burden of all his song is only change.