The poem
We expected the violin's finger on the upturned nerve; Its importunate cry, too laxly curved: And you drew us an oboe-outline, clean and acute; Unadorned statement, accurately carved.
We expected the screen, the background for reverie Which cloudforms usefully weave: And you built the immaculate, adamant, blue-green steel Arch of a balanced wave.
We expected a pool with flowers to diffuse and break The child-round face of the mirrored moon: And you blazed a rock-path, begun near the sun, to be finished By the trained and intrepid feet of men.