Renascence

ART, once an outcast in a wintry land, Far from the sun-built house where she was born, Did wander desolate and laughed to scorn By eyeless men who counted gold like sand: Nor any soul her speech would understand— A friendless stranger in the city lorn, Toil-grimed and blackened with the smoke upborne Of human sacrifice of brain and hand.

Then Art, aweary, laid her down and slept Beneath an ancient gate, and dreaming, smiled, For Hope, like spring, came full of tidings good; And Labour, huge and free, and Brotherhood Led her between them like a little child In time new born, to glad new life that leapt.