Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | January 21, 2009


by Leslie Pinckney Hill (1880 – 1960).




Wherefore this busy labor without rest? 

Is it an idle dream to which we cling, 

Here where a thousand dusky toilers sing 

Unto the world their hope? “Build we our best. 

By hand and thought,” they cry, “although unblessed.”           5

So the great engines throb, and anvils ring, 

And so the thought is wedded to the thing; 

But what shall be the end, and what the test? 

Dear God, we dare not answer, we can see 

Not many steps ahead, but this we know—                                  10

If all our toilsome building is in vain, 

Availing not to set our manhood free, 

If envious hate roots out the seed we sow, 

The South will wear eternally a stain.



Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s


%d bloggers like this: