First

How few of us In all the world's great, ceaseless struggling strife, Go to our work with gladsome, buoyant step, And love it for its sake, whate'er it be. Because it is a labor, or, mayhap, Some sweet, peculiar art of God's own gift; And not the promise of the world's slow smile of recognition, or of mammon's gilded grasp. Alas, how few, in inspiration's dazzling flash, Or spiritual sense of world's beyond the dome Of circling blue around this weary earth, Can bask, and know the God-given grace Of genius' fire that flows and permeates The virgin mind alone; the soul in which The love of earth hath tainted not. The love of art and art alone.