Opifex

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."