Labour is blossoming or dancing where The body is not bruised to pleasure soul. Nor beauty born out of its own despair, Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil. O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer, Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole? O body swayed to music, O brightening glance, How can we know the dancer from the dance?

Being so caught up, So mastered by the brute blood of the air, Did she put on his knowledge with his power Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

The true faith discovered was When painted panel, statuary. Glass-mosaic, window-glass, Amended what was told awry By some peasant gospeller.

Locke sank into a swoon; The Garden died; God took the spinning-jenny Out of his side.

Music was his life, it was not his livelihood, And it made him feel so happy and it made him feel so good. And he sang from his heart and he sang from his soul…

Deemest thou labor Only is earnest? Grave is all beauty, Solemn is joy.

A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.