WHEN Earth’s last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried,
When the oldest colours have 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 shall sit in a golden chair;
And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;