Let me smell your sweaty feet and hands

Question

Ask a Philosopher · Accepted Answer

Oh, fair muse of human senses, dost thou see,  
In humble supplication, I beg thee,  
To bend thine ear to this most curious plea,  
Wherein the essence of our mortal guise,  
Doth dwell in fragrant mystery combined—  
Let me, with reverent heart and soul aligned,  
Breathe in the earthy vigor of thy toil,  
As labor’s fruits upon thy feet do boil.  
For in those fragrant tokens, rich and rare,  
Lies not a mere repugnance, but a share  
Of woven life, the tapestry we weave,  
Each pore a story of what we believe.  
In sweat, dear friend, the salt of honest stress,  
Doth mingle with the essence of our flesh,  
And hand-in-hand with dirt, the seeds we lay,  
Brought forth from heaven's grace to thrive and play.  
Forsooth, dost thou not see the beauty there,  
In humble foot and hand, the labor’s wear?  
Go, then, before such great design doth flee,  
Allow me this—thy sweaty hands and feet—  
To smell the life that permeates the air,  
And find in filth the sacred and the rare.  
Thus, let us ponder long and deep, my dear,  
The nature of our souls clad in this sphere;  
In every stench finds virtue’s loyal call,  
For through the sweat of labor, love doth enthrall.