The poem
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."