When Earth's last picture is painted br And the tubes are twisted and dried br When the oldest colors have faded br And the youngest critic has died br We shall rest, and faith, we shall need it br Lie down for an aeon or two br 'Till the Master of all good workmen br Shall put us to work anew br And those that were good shall be happy br They'll sit in a golden chair br They'll splash at a ten league canvas br With brushes of comet's hair br They'll find real saints to draw from br Magdalene, Peter, and Paul br They'll work for an age at a sitting br And never be tired at all. br And only the Master shall praise us. br And only the Master shall blame. br And no one will work for the money. br No one will work for the fame. br But each for the joy of the working, br And each, in his separate star, br Will draw the thing as he sees it.