Classic Poem

Work is not all, however much we need
The stress of toil, the sobering hand of care,
Compulsion strong, enforcing us to bear
The heavier burden with the lesser meed.
Shall work be all? Shall man no longer heed
The whisper of the help from otherwhere
Of vibrant strength the weakest soul may share?
Shall toil-dimmed eyes God's promise fail to read?
The soul must keep its Sabbaths and renew
The inner life that makes the outer strong,
By finding in the Infinite its rest.
Let not the good obscure the best, its due;
The hours of work if they be not too long
Are good. The Sabbath of the soul is best.