The Masters

A poem by Violet Nicolson, Lawrence Hope, Adela Florence Cory Nicolson (1865 – 1904)

Oh, Masters, you who rule the world,

Will you not wait with me awhile,

When swords are sheathed and sails are furled,

And all the fields with harvest smile?

I would not waste your time for long,

I ask you but, when you are tired,

To read how by the weak, the strong

Are weighed and worshipped and desired.

When weary of the Mart, the Loom,

The Withering-house, the Riffle-blocks,

The Barrack-square, the Engine-room,

The pick-axe, ringing on the rocks,–

When tents are pitched and work is done,

While restful twilight broods above,

By fresh-lit lamp, or dying sun,

See in my songs how women love.

We shared your lonely watch by night,

We knew you faithful at the helm,

Our thoughts went with you through the fight,

That saved a soul,–or wrecked a realm

Ah, how our hearts leapt forth to you,

In pride and joy, when you prevailed,

And when you died, serene and true:

–We wept in silence when you failed!

Oh, brain that did not gain the gold!

Oh, arm, that could not wield the sword,

Here is the love, that is not sold,

Here are the hearts to hail you Lord!

You played and lost the game? What then?

The rules are harsh and hard we know,

You, still, Oh, brothers, are the men

Whom we in secret reverence so.

Your work was waste? Maybe your share

Lay in the hour you laughed and kissed;

Who knows but what your son shall wear

The laurels that his father missed?

Ay, you who win, and you who lose,

Whether you triumph,–or despair,–

When your returning footsteps choose

The homeward track, our love is there.

For, since the world is ordered thus,

To you the fame, the stress, the sword,

We can but wait, until to us

You give yourselves, for our reward.

To Whaler’s deck and Coral beach,

To lonely Ranch and Frontier-Fort,

Beyond the narrow bounds of speech

I lay the cable of my thought.

I fain would send my thanks to you,

(Though who am I, to give you praise?)

Since what you are, and work you do,

Are lessons for our easier ways.

‘Neath alien stars your camp-fires glow,

I know you not,–your tents are far.

My hope is but in song to show,

How honoured and dear you are.

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• Savantism. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Salut au Monde. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Runner, The. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Roots and Leaves Themselves Alone. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Roaming in Thought. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Rise, O Days. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Respondez! by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Recorders Ages Hence. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Reconciliation. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Race of Veterans. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Quicksand Years. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Proud Music of The Storm by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Primeval my Love for the Woman I Love. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Prayer of Columbus. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Prairie States, The. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Prairie-Grass Dividing, The. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Portals. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Poets to Come. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Poem of Remembrance for a Girl or a Boy. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman

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