When Earth's last picture is paintedAnd the tubes are twisted and driedWhen the oldest colors have fadedAnd the youngest critic has diedWe shall rest, and faith, we shall need itLie down for an aeon or two'Till the Master of all good workmenShall put us to work anewAnd those that were good shall be happyThey'll sit in a golden chairThey'll splash at a ten league canvasWith brushes of comet's hairThey'll find real saints to draw fromMagdalene, Peter, and PaulThey'll work for an age at a sittingAnd 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.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!