The Toiler

Frances York

You seek, with hunger-whetted eyes,
For lacerating bits of toil,
And gird your limbs with bars of steel,
Or gloat upon the mocking soil.

Although a slave, you are most free
When all but drudgery you shun,
Knowing that only in this way
You find yourself and earth as one.
And if you never reach for God
But only walk the finite way,
Your immortality will be
In one self-molded piece of clay.