The Ideal

Toil on, poor muser, to attain that goal Where Art conceals its grandest, noblest prize; Count every tear that dims your aching eyes, Count all the years that seem as days, and roll The death-tides slowly on; count all your sighs; Search the wide, wondrous earth from pole to pole, Tear unbelief from out your martyred soul; Succumb not, chase despondency, be wise; Work, toil, and struggle with the brush or pen, Revel in rhyme, strain intellect and ken; Live on and hope despite man’s sceptic leers; Praise the Ideal with your every breath, Give it life, youth and glory, blood and tears, And to possess it pay its tribute—Death.

Collection: 
English
Francis Saltus Saltus

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