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