Yet we, the bondslaves of our day,
    Whom dirt and danger press—
Co-heirs of insolence, delay,
    And leagued unfaithfulness—
Such is our need must seek indeed
    And, having found, engage
The men who merely do the work
    For which they draw the wage.

From forge and farm and mine and bench;
    Deck, altar, outpost lone—
Mill, school, battalion, counter, trench,
    Rail, senate, sheepfold, throne—
Creation’s cry goes up on high
    From age to cheated age:
“Send us the men who do the work
    ”For which they draw the wage!”

Words cannot help nor wit achieve,
    Nor e’en the all-gifted fool,
Too weak to enter, bide, or leave
    The lists he cannot rule.
Beneath the sun we count on none
    Our evil to assuage,
Except the men that do the work
    For which they draw the wage.

When through the Gates of Stress and Strain
    Comes forth the vast Event—
The simple, sheer, sufficing, sane
    Result of labour spent—
They that have wrought the end unthought
    Be neither saint nor sage,
But only men who did the work
    For which they drew the wage.

Wherefore to these the Fates shall bend
    (And all old idle things—)
Wherefore on these shall Power attend
    Beyond the grip of kings:
Each in his place, by right, not grace,
    Shall rule his heritage—
The men who simply do the work
    For which they draw the wage.

Not such as scorn the loitering street,
    Or waste to earn its praise,
Their noontide’s unreturning heat
    About their morning ways;
But such as dower each mortgaged hour
    Alike with clean courage—
Even the men who do the work
    For which they draw the wage—
Men, like to Gods, that do the work
    For which they draw the wage—
Begin—continue—close that work
    For which they draw the wage!