Albeit for lack of bread we die,
Die in a hundred nameless ways,
'Tis not for bread alone we cry
In these our later days.

It is not fit that man should spend
His strength of frame, his length of years,
In toiling for that daily end,
Mere bread, oft wet with tears.

That is not wholly good and gain
Which seals the mind and sears the heart,
The life-long labour to sustain
Man's perishable part.

His is the need and his the right
Of leisure, free from harsh control,
That he may seek for mental light,
And cultivate his soul.

Leisure to foster into bloom
Affections struggling to expand;
And make his thought, with ampler room,
Refine his skill of hand.

And he should look with reverent eyes
On Nature's ever-varying page;
Not solely are the wondrous skies
For schoolman and for sage.

Earth's flower-hues blush, heaven's
starlights burn,
Not only for the easy few;
To them the toiling man should turn
For truth and pleasure too.

And he should have his proper share
Of God's great gifts, whate'er they be.
Food, raiment, stainless light and air,
And knowledge pure and free.

But if ye stint his brain or bread,
And drive him in one dreary round
(Since he and his must needs be fed),
Ye crush him to the ground.

His mind can have no soaring wing;
His heart can feel no generous glow,
Ye make of him that wretched thing—
A slave, and yet a foe!