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.
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?”
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 yolk 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?”