Art

More fair the work, more strong, Stamped in resistance long,-- Enamel, marble, song.

Poet, no shackles bear, Yet bid thy Muse to wear The buskin bound with care.

A fashion loose forsake,-- A shoe of sloven make, That any foot may take.

Sculptor, the clay withstand, That yieldeth to the hand, Though listless heart command.

Contend till thou have wrought, Till the hard stone have caught The beauty of thy thought.

With Paros match thy might, And with Carrara bright, That guard the line of light.

Borrow from Syracuse The bronze's stubborn use, Wherein thy form to choose.

And with a delicate grace In the veined onyx trace Apollo's perfect face.

Painter, put thou aside The transient. Be thy pride The colour furnace-tried.

Limn thou, fantastic, free Blue sirens of the sea, And beasts of heraldry.

Before a nimbus gold Transcendently uphold The Child, the Cross foretold.

Things perish. Gods have passed. But song sublimely cast Shall citadels outlast.

And the forgotten seal Turned by the plowman's steel An emperor may reveal.

For Art alone is great: The bust survives the state, The crown the potentate.

Carve, burnish, build thy theme,-- But fix thy wavering dream In the stern rock supreme.

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