"Yet beauty has its use," Responded she. "Whatever elevates Inspires, refreshes, any human soul, Is useful to that soul. Beauty has use For you and me. The dainty violet Blooms in our thought, and sheds its fragrance there And we are gainers through its ministry. All God's great values wear the drapery That most becomes them. Beauty may, in truth, Be incident of art and not be end-- Its form, condition, features, dress, and still The humblest value of the things of art. This truth obtains in all God's artistry. Does God make beauty for himself, alone? He is, and holds, all beauty. Has he need To kindle rushes that he may behold The glory of his thoughts? or need to use His thoughts as plasms for the amorphous clay That he may study models? For an end Outside himself, he ever speaks himself; And end, with him, is use." "Well, I confess There's truth in what you utter," I replied;-- "A modicum of truth, at least; and still There's something more which this our subtle talk Has failed to give us. I will not affirm That art, recorded in its thousand forms, And clothed with usages, traditions, rules,-- The thing of history--the mighty pile Of drift that sweep of ages has brought down To heap the puzzled present--is the sum And substance of all art. I will not claim-- Nay, mark me now--I will not even claim That beauty is art's end, or has its end Within itself. Our tedious colloquy Has cleared away the rubbish from my thought, And given me cleaner vision. I can see Before, around me, underneath, above, The great unrealized; and while I bow To the traditions and the things of art, And hold my theories, I find myself Inspired supremely by the Possible That calls for revelation--by the forms That sleep imprisoned in the snowy arms Of still unquarried truth, or stretch their hands At sound of sledge and drill and booming fire, Imploring for release. I turn from men, And stretch my hands toward these. I feel--I know-- That there are mighty myriads waiting there, And listening for my steps. Suppose my age Should fail to give them welcome: ay, suppose They may not help a man to coin a dime Or cook a dinner: they will fare as well As much of God's truth fares, though clothed in forms Divinely chosen. Does God ever stint His utterance because no creature hears? Is it a grand and goodly thing, to spend Brave life and precious treasure in a search For palpitating water at the pole, That so the sum of knowledge may be swelled, Though pearls are not increased; and something less To probe the Possible in art, or sit Through months of dreary dark to catch a glimpse Of the live truth that quivers with the jar Of movement at its axle? Is it good To garner gain beyond the present need, Won by excursive commerce in all seas; And something less to pile redundantly