To hold secure the province of Pure Art, —
What if the crude and weighty task were mine? —
For him who runs, cutting the pen less fine
Than formerly, and in the indignant heart
Dipping it straight? (to issue thence a dart,
And shine no more except as weapons shine)
The deeply-loved, the laboured, polished line
Eschew for ever? — this to be my part?
Attacked that Temple is which must not fall —
Under whose ancient shade Calliope,
Thalia, Euterpe, the nine Muses all
Went once about their happy business free:
Could I but write the Writing on the Wall! —
What matter, if one poet cease to be.