On world's side there are a very few

Who do what gets done, who never doubt

That none of it is hero's work, or new,

Or much deserving public shout,

Who do it though it was done before,

Who knock, wait, stand and shiver

Outside the slammed and hateful door

That says No, that says again, Never.

One learns. The tempering of a tool

Comes first, the heat, the cold; the thin

Edge of the blade last, a stony school.

Yet ground and yet dull is a chagrin

Nothing will heal but again the hammer,

So to be made perfect in the sight

Of One Who wearied through the grammar

Of love, and still had appetite.