You cannot pay with money The million sons of toil-- The sailor on the ocean, The peasant on the soil, The labourer in the quarry, The hewer of the coal; Your money pays the hand, But it cannot pay the soul.
You gaze on the cathedral, Whose turrets meet the sky; Remember the foundations That in earth and darkness lie, Nor, were not those foundations So darkly resting there, Yon towers could not soar up So proudly in the air.
The workshop must be crowded That the palace may be bright: If the ploughman did not plough Then the poet could not write. Then let every toil be hallowed That man performs for man, And have its share of honor As part of one great plan.
See, light darts from heaven, And enters where it may; The eyes of all earth's people Are cheered with one bright day. And let the mind's true sunshine Be spread over earth for free, And fill, the souls of men As the waters fill the sea.
The man who turns the soil Need not have an earthly mind; The digger'mid the coal Need not be in spirit blind, The mind can shed a light On each worthy labor done, As lowest things are bright In the radiance of the sun.
The tailor, ay, the cobbler, May lift their heads as men,-- Better far than Alexander, Could he wake to life again, And think of all his bloodshed, (And all for nothing too!) And ask himself--What made I, As useful as a shoe?
What cheers the musing student, The poet, the divine? The thought that for his followers A brighter day will shine. Let every human laborer Enjoy the vision bright-- Let the thought that comes from heaven Be spread like heaven's own light?
Ye men who hold the pen, Rise like a band inspired, And poets let your lyrics With hope for man be fired? Till the earth becomes a temple, And every human heart Shall join in one great service, Each happy in his part.