How must it be, o man of men, to gaze upon that lake?
The scent of creeping evening breeze?
How must it seem to breathe and taste
Mingling salts of sweat and seas?
How must it feel at end of days
When labors' cost leaves body spent--
Aching arms earned honest wage
And stiffened back o'er fire is bent?
How must it be, o meekest man,
To patiently thy hunger sate?
A simple fish o'er flame prepared--
All afforded to thee partake.
How must it feel for calloused hands
To draw thy roughspun tunic close
Against the cold, as darkness falls,
Which poignant thought will grip thee most?
Is it the somber cloak thou wear?
The rope-burned hands from evening's catch?
Or is't thy reflection in that lake--
The face of God in humble flesh?
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