"I understand, I think, the basis of your plan," she said; "And e'en the plan itself. You now propose To write without remotest reference To the world's wishes, prejudices, needs, Or e'en the world's opinions,--quite content If the world find aught in you to applaud; Quite as content if it condemn. With full Expression of yourself in finest terms And noblest forms of art, so far as God Has made you masterful, you give yourself Up to yourself and to your art. Is this Fair statement of your purpose?" "Not unfair," I answered. "Tell me what you think of it." "Suppose," she said, "that all the artist-souls That God has made since time and art began Had acted on your theory: suppose In architecture, picture, poetry, Naught had found utterance but works that sprang To satisfy the worker, and reveal That bundle of ideas which, to him, Is constituted art; but which, in truth, Is figment of his fancy, or his thought,-- His creature, made his God--say where were all The temples, palaces and homes of men; The galleries that blaze with history, Or bloom with landscape, or look down With smile of changeless love or loveliness Into the hearts of men? And where were all The poems that give measure to their praise, Voice to their aspirations, forms of light To homely facts and features of their life, Enveloping this plain, prosaic world In an ideal atmosphere, in which Fair angels come and go? All gifts of men Were made for use, and made for highest use, If highest use be service of one's self, And highest standard, one's embodiment Of dogmas, theories and thoughts of art, As art's identity, then are you right; But if a higher use of gift and art Be service of mankind, and higher rule God's regal truth, revealed in words or worlds, And verified by life, then are you wrong."