Then, fire and clay, they fashioned a

man,

And painted him rosy brown;

And God himself blew hard in his eyes: "Let them burn till they smoulder down!"

And "There!" said Hack, and "There! thought Hew,

"We'll rest, for our toil is done." But "Nay," the Master Workman said, "For your toil is just begun.

"And ye who served me of old as God Shall serve me anew as man,

Till I compass the dream that is in my heart,

And perfect the vaster plan."

And still the craftsman over his craft,
In the vague white light of dawn,
With God's calm will for his burning will,
While the mounting day comes on,

Yearning, wind-swift, indolent, wild,
Toils with those shadowy two,
The faltering, restless hand of Hack,
And the tireless hand of Hew.

!