Shapes of Clay

Thy gift, if that it be of God,

Thou hast no warrant to appraise,

Nor say: "Here part, O Muse, our ways,

The road too stony to be trod."

Not thine to call the labor hard

And the reward inadequate.

Who haggles o'er his hire with Fate

Is better bargainer than bard.

What! count the effort labor lost

When thy good angel holds the reed?

It were a sorry thing indeed

To stay him till thy palm be crossed.

"The laborer is worthy"—nay,

The sacred ministry of song

Is rapture!—'t were a grievous wrong

To fix a wages-rate for play.