No false constraint be thine!

But, for right walking, choose

The fine,

The strict cothurnus, Muse.

Vainly ye seek to escape

The toil! The yielding phrase

Ye shape

Is clay, not chrysoprase.

And all in vain ye scorn

That seeming ease which ne'er

Was born

Of aught but love and care.

Take up the sculptor's tool!

Recall the gods that die

To rule

In Parian o'er the sky.

For Beauty still rebels!

Our dreams like clouds disperse:

She dwells

In agate, marble, verse.

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