My Dull Brother

You, my brother, you, whose dull eyes
Look forth unto dull days, whose hours make progress
Like unto a procession of cowled monks,
Never lifting their heads, nor letting thee behold
What lieth beneath the cowls:
Thou, my brother, whose lips are thin from pressing,
Whose laugh is a thin blade, a cutting thing,
Which, when fallen, ringeth not:
Thou, my brother, whose hands ceaselessly toil,
In labour which has no recompense-
Save the drop, drop, drop of water-
Slowly dropping, not enough to quench thy thirst,
But to tantalize thee:
Thou, my brother, whose feet tread a dumb path,
One, whose border hath not e'en
A friendly blossom, but whose way
Is dust-fogged, grimed and stoned:
Thou, my brother, upon thy way, uncomplaining
At the labour of day, with no question,
Mutely making the task finished,
While the day complacently sits upon her throne,
Aloofly smiling: I would address thee.
I would say: "Come, fellow, I drink from out thy heart
A wholesome draught! Come, fellow, let my hand,
Rest within thy begrimed palm!
Let me behold thy dull eyes!
I would laugh them full of life.
I would follow thy dull path with jest,
And make thee my comrade.
For I am sick of the wise, who mouth,
And would consort with the unwise, who labour.
Thus would I tip my beam.