Pansies (Lawrence)/Work

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WORK
There is no point in workunless it absorbs youlike an absorbing game.
If it doesn't absorb youif it's never any fun,don't do it.
When a man goes out into his workhe is alive like a tree in springhe is living, not merely working.
When the Hindus weave thin wool into long, long lengths of stuffwith their thin dark hands and their wide dark eyes and their still souls absorbedthey are like slender trees putting forth leaves, a long white web of living leaf,the tissue they weave, ​and they clothe themselves in white as a tree clothes itself in its own foliage.
As with cloth, so with houses, ships, shoes, wagons or cups or loavesmen might put them forth as a snail its shell, as a bird that leansits breast against its nest, to make it round,as the turnip models his round root, as the bush makes flowers and gooseberries,putting them forth, not manufacturing them,and cities might be as once they were, bowers grown out from the busy bodies of people.And so it will be again, men will smash the machines.
At last, for the sake of clothing himself in his own leaf-like clothtissued from his life,and dwelling in his own bowery house, like a beaver's nibbled mansionand drinking from cups that came off his fingers like flowers off their five-fold stem,he will cancel the machines we have got.
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