It is for lack of praise hearts do weary.
When folk together do not come to praise,
and therefore raise the holy powers, all the land
is vanish'd of its magic so far as the tribe's luck,
which ebbing, a mere minimum becomes
and all effort is strongest plied to vain,
with waste of greater remnant than is spent.
It is for laughing at these truths
the land becomes a net of tombs.
We are thieves if we silence what praise is due,
and thankgivings ought be daily.
Neglected cathedrals of sublime might,
shaped by living essences, surround us,
and they sustain the living power, sole to ask that we,
our poet power, art, creation, render back to them.
And if you laugh, the world laughs back sterility.
And if you mock, the world mocks back its might
supreme against your insect-taunts and squeaks.
Praise, pay up, paying the e'er-increasing
debt racked up by life imbibing up -- pay up, and praise.
