Poems (Cary)/The Workers

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THE WORKERS.
Who are seers and who are sages? They who know and understand—Not the sphinxes of old ages, With their dead eyes in the sand.
Every worm beside you creeping, Every insect flying well,Every pebble in earth's keeping, Has a history to tell.
The small, homely flower that's lying In your pathway, may containSome elixir, which the dying Generations sought in vain.
In the stone that waits the turning Of some curious hand, from sightFiery atoms may be burning, That would fill the world with light.
Let us then, in reverence bowing, Honor most of all mankind,Such as keep their great thoughts plowing Deepest in the field of mind.
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