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| WHEN the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden’s green and gold, | |
| Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould; | |
| And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart, | |
| Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, “It ’s pretty, but is it Art?” | |
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| Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew— | 5 |
| The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review; | |
| And he left his lore to the use of his sons—and that was a glorious gain | |
| When the Devil chuckled “Is it Art?” in the ear of the branded Cain. | |
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| They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart, | |
| Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: “It ’s striking, but is it Art?” | 10 |
| The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung. | |
| While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue. | |
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| They fought and they talked in the North and the South, they talked and they fought in the West, | |
| Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had rest— | |
| Had rest till the dank, blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start, | 15 |
| And the Devil bubbled below the keel: “It ’s human, but is it Art?” | |
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| The tale is as old as the Eden Tree—and new as the new-cut tooth— | |
| For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth; | |
| And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart, | |
| The Devil drum on the darkened pane: “You did it, but was it Art?” | 20 |
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| We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg, | |
| We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yelk of an addled egg, | |
| We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the horse is drawn by the cart; | |
| But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: “It ’s clever, but is it Art?” | |
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| When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the Club-room’s green and gold, | 25 |
| The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mould— | |
| They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start, | |
| For the Devil mutters behind the leaves: “It ’s pretty, but is it Art?” | |
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| Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers flow, | |
| And the Wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago, | 30 |
| And if we could come when the sentry slept and softly scurry through, | |
| By the favor of God we might know as much—as our father Adam knew. | |
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