Ah, tell me! though my work means little yet,
Has it no promise ... none? Do you forget
How you too learned,—and did things—oh! not well—
But each time, as a child that learns to spell,
Your hand became more sure, until it caught
The kindling fire! And then you had no thought
Of fame or money, or what the world might say,
But only of Beauty, and the joy that lay
There in your hands—the joy of giving birth
To form!... And then, had any one on earth