THE stuff out of which a poem is wrought Is not to be suck'd from the finger; No God created the world from nought Any more than an earthly singer. 'Twas mud primeval that form'd the source Whence the body of man I created, And from the ribs of man in due course Fair woman I separated. The heavens I form'd from out of the earth, And angels from women completed; The raw material first gets its worth From being artist'cally treated. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE HABIT OF PERFECTION by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS ON LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD by BEN JONSON THE OLD CHURCHYARD OF BONCHURCH by PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON SONNET: 73 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE AN ARMY CORPS ON THE MARCH by WALT WHITMAN A ROCKING HYMN by GEORGE WITHER MORNING STAR by HARRIET R. BEAN |