III

Take up the sculptor's tool!

Becall the dreams that die

To rule

In Parian o'er the sky;

And kings that not endure

In bronze to re-ascend

Secure

Until the world shall end.

Poet, let passion sleep

Till with the cosmic rhyme

You keep

Eternal tone and time,

By rule of hour and flower,

By strength of stern restraint

And power

To fail and not to faint.

The task is hard to learn

While all the songs of Spring

Return

Along the blood and sing.

Yet hear — from her deep skies,

How Art, for all your pain,

Still cries

Ye must be born again!

Reject the wreath of rose,

Take up the crown of thorn

That shows

To-night a child is born.

The far immortal face

In chosen onyx fine

Enchase,

Delicate line by line.

Strive with Carrara, fight

With Parian, till there steal

To light

Apollo's pure profile.

Set the great lucid form

Free from its marble tomb

To storm

The heights of death and doom.

Take up the sculptor's tool!

Recall the gods that die

To rule

In Parian o'er the sky,