When Earth's last picture is painted And the tubes are twisted and dried, When the oldest colours have faded, And the youngest critic has died, We shall rest, and faith, we shall need it. Lie down for an aeon or two 'Till the Master of all good workmen Shall put us to work anew
And those that were good shall be happy. They'll sit in a golden chair And splash at a ten-league canvas. With brushes of comet's hair, They'll find real saints to draw from Magdalene, Peter, and Paul. They'll work for an age at a sitting And never be tired.
And only the Master shall praise us. And only the Master shall blame. And no one will work for the money. No one will work for the fame. But each for the joy of the working, And each, in his separate star,
Will draw the thing as he sees it. For the God of things as they are!
Rudyard Kipling
@peacewriter51
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