"I think," responded she, with an arch smile, "The application's needless: but you men Are so obtuse, when will is in the way, That I will do your bidding. Every gift That God bestows on men holds in itself The secret of its office, like the rake The gardener wields. The rake was made to till-- Was fashioned, head and handle, for just that; And if, by grace of God, you hold a gift So fashioned and adapted, that it stands In like relation of supremest use To life of men, the office of your gift Has perfect definition. Gift like this Is yours, my husband. In your facile hands God placed it for the service of himself, In service of your kind. Taking this gift, And using it for God and for the world, In your own way, and in your own best way; Seeking for light and knowledge everywhere To guide your careful hand; and opening wide To spiritual influx all your soul, That so your master may breathe into you, And breathe his great life through you, in such forms Of pure presentment as he gives you skill To build withal--that's all of art--for you. Art is an instrument, and not an end-- A servant, not a master, nor a God To be bowed down to. Shall we worship rakes? Honor of art, by him whose work is art, Is a fine passion; but he honors most Whose use and end are best." "Use! Use! Use!" I cried impatiently;--"nothing but use! As if God never made a violet, Or hung a harebell, or in kindling gold Garnished a sunset, or upreared the arch Of a bright rainbow, or endowed a world-- A universe, indeed--stars, firmament, The vastitudes of forest and of sea, Swift brooks and sweeping rivers, virid meads And fluff of breezy hills--with tints that range The scale of spectral beauty, till they leave No glint or glory of the changeful light Without a revelation! Is this use-- I beg your pardon, love: you say 'this art'-- The sum and end of art? If it be so, Then God's no artist. Are the crystal brooks Sweeter for singing to the thirsty brutes That dip their beaded muzzles in the foam? Burns the tree better that its leaves are green? Sleeps the sun sounder under canopy Of gold or rose?"