With adamantine words.



I framed his tongue to music,
I armed his hand with skill,
I moulded his face to beauty
And his heart the throne of Will.



For every God
Obeys the hymn, obeys the ode.



For art, for music over-thrilled,
The wine-cup shakes, the wine is spilled.



Hold of the Maker, not the Made;
Sit with the Cause, or grim or glad.



That book is good
Which puts me in a working mood.
Unless to Thought is added Will,
Apollo is an imbecile.