On Work

Then a ploughman said, Speak

to us of Work.

And he answered, saying:

You work that you may keep pace with the

earth and the soul of the earth.

For to be idle is to become a stranger

unto the seasons, and to step out of

life’s procession, that marches in

majesty and proud submission towards the

infinite.

When you work you are a flute through

whose heart the whispering of the hours

turns to music.

Which of you would be a reed, dumb and

silent, when all else sings together in

unison?

Always you have been told that work is a

curse and labour a misfortune.

But I say to you that when you work you

fulfil a part of earth’s furthest dream,

assigned to you when that dream was

born,

And in keeping yourself with labour you

are in truth loving life,

And to love life through labour is to be

intimate with life’s inmost secret.

But if you in your pain call birth an

affliction and the support of the flesh

a curse written upon your brow, then I

answer that naught but the sweat of

your brow shall wash away that which is

written.

You have been told also that life is

darkness, and in your weariness you echo

what was said by the weary.

And I say that life is indeed darkness

‘save when there is urge,

And all urge is blind save when there is

knowledge,

And all knowledge is vain save when

there is work,

And all work is empty save when there is

love;

And when you work with love you bind

yourself to yourself, and to one

another, and to God.

And what is it to work with love?

It is to weave the cloth with threads

drawn from your heart, even as if your

beloved were to wear that cloth.

It is to build a house with affection,

even as if your beloved were to dwell in

that house.

It is to sow seeds with tenderness and

reap the harvest with joy, even as if

your beloved were to eat the fruit.

It is to charge all things you fashion

with a breath of your own spirit,

And to know that all the blessed dead

are standing about you and watching.

Often have I heard you say, as if

speaking in sleep, “He who works in

marble, and finds the shape of his own

soul in the stone, is nobler than he who

ploughs the soil.

And he who seizes the rainbow to lay it on a cloth in the

likeness of man, is more than he who

makes the sandals for our feet.”

But I say, not in sleep but in the

overwakefulness of noontide, that the

wind speaks not more sweetly to the

giant oaks than to the least of all the

blades of grass;

And he alone is great who turns the

voice of the wind into a song made

sweeter by his own loving.

Work is love made visible.

And if you cannot work with love but

only with distaste, it is better that

you should leave your work and sit at

the gate of the temple and take alms of

those who work with joy.

For if you bake bread with indifference,

you bake a bitter bread that feeds but

half man’s hunger.

And if you grudge the crushing of the

grapes, your grudge distils a poison in

the wine.

And if you sing though as

angels, and love not the singing, you

muffle man’s ears to the voices of the

day and the voices of the night.