When the flicker of London Sun falls faint on the Club-room’s green and gold,
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?”
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,
And if we could come when the sentry slept and softly scurry through,
By the favour of God we might know as much—as our father Adam knew!
Rudyard Kipling.