As I was carving images from clouds, <br /> And tinting them with soft ethereal dyes <br /> Pressed from the pulp of dreams, one comes, and cries:-- <br /> "Forbear!" and all my heaven with gloom enshrouds. <br /> <br /> "Forbear!" Thou hast no tools wherewith to essay <br /> The delicate waves of that elusive grain: <br /> Wouldst have due recompense of vulgar pain? <br /> The potter's wheel for thee, and some coarse clay! <br /> <br /> "So work, if work thou must, O humbly skilled! <br /> Thou hast not known the Master; in thy soul <br /> His spirit moves not with a sweet control; <br /> Thou art outside, and art not of the guild." <br /> <br /> Thereat I rose, and from his presence passed, <br /> But, going, murmured:--"To the God above, <br /> Who holds my heart, and knows its store of love, <br /> I turn from thee, thou proud iconoclast." <br /> <br /> Then on the shore God stooped to me, and said:-- <br /> "He spake the truth: even so the springs are set <br /> That move thy life, nor will they suffer let, <br /> Nor change their scope; else, living, thou wert dead. <br /> <br /> "This is thy life: indulge its natural flow, <br /> And carve these forms. They yet may find a place <br /> On shelves for them reserved. In any case, <br /> I bid thee carve them, knowing what I know."<br /><br />Thomas Edward Brown<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/opifex/
