Rodin in Rime

There is a flower of native light That springs eternal on the earth. Carve us, O master-hand, aright That ecstasy of pain and mirth, A baby’s birth! That prize of fear Engrave upon the loftiest tier! Nor in the solitary woe (The silent, the unwitting strain) Forget the miracles that grow In the austerely ordered brain! Darwin and Taine, Descartes and Boyle, Inscribe thou on the Tower of Toil! Those who have striven to limn the mind, Paint, model, tune, or hymn the light, Their vision of the world refined By mastery of superior sight: Honour their might! the gain have these Of all men’s woes and ecstasies! High soul; no benediction seek From any spirit but our own! Crown not the mighty with the weak! The Tower be a Tower, and not a Throne! In man-carved stone the endless coil Arise untopped, the Tower of Toil! 18