AS I was carving images from clouds, And tinting them with soft ethereal dyes Pressed from the pulp of dreams, one comes, and cries: -- "Forbear!" and all my heaven with gloom enshrouds. "Forbear! Thou hast no tools wherewith to essay The delicate waves of that elusive grain: Wouldst have due recompense of vulgar pain? The potter's wheel for thee, and some coarse clay! "So work, if work thou must, O humbly skilled! Thou hast not known the Master; in thy soul His spirit moves not with a sweet control; Thou art outside, and art not of the guild." Thereat I rose, and from his presence passed, But, going, murmured: -- "To the God above, Who holds my heart, and knows its store of love, I turn from thee, thou proud iconoclast." Then on the shore God stooped to me, and said: -- "He spake the truth: even so the springs are set That move thy life, nor will they suffer let, Nor change their scope; else, living, thou wert dead. "This is thy life: indulge its natural flow, And carve these forms. They yet may find a place On shelves for them reserved. In any case, I bid thee carve them, knowing what I know." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE IMPORTANCE OF GREEN by JAMES GALVIN DOROTHY'S DOWER by PHOEBE CARY LOST AND FOUND by GEORGE MACDONALD SONNET: 144 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE HYMN TO SCIENCE by MARK AKENSIDE IN VINCULIS; SONNETS WRITTEN IN AN IRISH PRISON: A DREAM OF GOOD by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |