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."