Lvi

I gather heart through just such conquests of the soul, Through evocation out of that which, on the whole, Was rough, ungainly, partial accomplishment, at best, And--what, at worst, save failure to spit at and detest?-- --Through transference of all, achieved in visible things, To where, secured from wrong, rest soul's imaginings-- Through ardor to bring help just where completion halts, Do justice to the purpose, ignore the slips and faults-- And, last, through waging with deformity a fight Which wrings thence, at the end, precise its opposite. I praise the loyalty o' the scholar,--stung by taunt Of fools, "Does this evince thy Master men so vaunt? Did he then perpetrate the plain abortion here?"-- Who cries, "His work am I! full fraught by him, I clear His fame from each result of accident and time, Myself restore his work to its fresh morning-prime, Not daring touch the mass of marble, fools deride, But putting my idea in plaster by its side, His, since mine; I, he made, vindicate who made me!"