God, eldest of Poets.
Thou hadst, for weary feet, the gift of rest.
We hold our hate too choice a thing, for light and careless lavishing.
Braying of arrogant brass, whimper of querulous reeds.
He saw wan Woman toil with famished eyes; He saw her bound, and strove to sing her free. He saw her fall'n; and wrote "The Bridge of Sighs"; And on it crossed to immortality.
Too long, that some may rest, tired millions toil unblest.