They fought and they talked in the North and the South, they talked and they fought in the West, Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had rest -- Had rest till that dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start, And the Devil bubbled below the keel: “It's human, but is it Art?” They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart, Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: “It's striking, but is it Art?” The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung, While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue. The tale is as old as the Eden Tree -- and new as the new-cut tooth -- For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth; And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart, The Devil drum on the darkened pane: “You did it, but was it Art?” We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg, We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yelk of an addled egg, We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the horse is drawn by the cart; But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: “It's clever, but is it Art?” When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the Club-room's green and gold, The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mould -- They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start, For the Devil mutters behind the leaves: “It's pretty, but is it Art?” Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers flow, And the Wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago, And if we could come when the sentry slept and softly scurry through, By the favour of God we might know as much -- as our father Adam knew! THE LEGEND OF EVIL I This is the sorrowful story Told when the twilight fails And the monkeys walk together Holding their neighbours' tails: -- “Our fathers lived in the forest, Foolish people were they, They went down to the cornland To teach the farmers to play. “Our fathers frisked in the millet, Our fathers skipped in the wheat, Our fathers hung from the branches, Our fathers danced in the street. “Then came the terrible farmers, Nothing of play they knew, Only. . .they caught our fathers And set them to labour too! “Set them to work in the cornland With ploughs and sickles and flails, Put them in mud-walled prisons And -- cut off their beautiful tails! “Now, we can watch our fathers, Sullen and bowed and old, Stooping over the millet, Sharing the silly mould, “Driving a foolish furrow, Mending a muddy yoke, Sleeping in mud-walled prisons, Steeping their food in smoke. “We may not speak to our fathers, For if the farmers knew They would come up to the forest And set us to labour too.”