⁠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 men who merely did the work
⁠For which they drew the wage