All things are doubly fair 
If patience fashion them 
  And care -- 
Verse, enamel, marble, gem. 

No idle chains endure: 
Yet, Muse, to walk aright, 
  Lace tight 
Thy buskin proud and sure. 

Fie on a facile measure, 
A shoe where every lout 
  At pleasure 
Slips his foot in and out ! 

Sculptor, lay by the clay 
On which thy nerveless finger 
  May linger, 
Thy thoughts flown far away. 

Keep to Carrara rare, 
Struggle with Paros cold, 
  That hold 
The subtle line and fair. 

Lest haply nature lose 
That proud, that perfect line, 
  Make thine 
The bronze of Syracuse. 

And with a tender dread 
Upon an agate's face 
  Retrace 
Apollo's golden head. 

Despise a watery hue 
And tints that soon expire. 
  With fire 
Burn thine enamel true. 

Twine, twine in artful wise 
The blue-green mermaid's arms, 
  Mid charms 
Of thousand heraldries. 

Show in their triple lobe 
Virgin and Child, that hold 
  Their globe, 
Cross-crowned and aureoled. 

-- All things return to dust 
Save beauties fashioned well. 
  The bust 
Outlasts the citadel. 

Oft doth the ploughman's heel, 
Breaking an ancient clod, 
  Reveal 
A Caesar or a god. 

The gods, too, die, alas ! 
But deathless and more strong 
  Than brass 
Remains the sovereign song. 

Chisel and carve and file, 
Till thy vague dream imprint 
  Its smile 
On the unyielding flint.