When Earth’s last picture is painted

And the tubes are twisted and dried

When the oldest colors are 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

They’ll splash at 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 at all.

And only the Master shall praise us.

And only the Master shall blame.

And no one will work for the money.

And no one will work for the fame.

But each for the joy of the working,

And each, in his separate star,

Will draw th thing as he sees it.

For the God of things as they are!