McClure's Magazine/Volume 19/Number 6/Work

M INE is the shape forever set between The thought and form, the vision and the deed; The hidden light, the glory all unseen, I bring to mortal senses, mortal need.

Who loves me not, my sorrowing slave is he, Bent with a burden, knowing oft the rod; But he who loves me shall my master be, And use me with the joyance of a god.

Man's lord or servant, still I am his friend; Desire for me is simple as his breath; Yea, waiting, old and toilless, for the end, He prays that he may find me after death.