As I Was Carving Images From Clouds, And Tinting Them With Soft Ethereal Dyes Pressed From The Pulp Of Dreams, One Comes, And Cries: "Forbear!" And All My Heaven With Gloom Enshrouds. "Forbear!" Thou Hast No Tools Wherewith To Essay The Delicate Waves Of That Elusive Grain: Wouldst Have Due Recompense Of Vulgar Pain? The Potter'S Wheel For Thee, And Some Coarse Clay! "So Work, If Work Thou Must, O Humbly Skilled! Thou Hast Not Known The Master; In Thy Soul His Spirit Moves Not With A Sweet Control; Thou Art Outside, And Art Not Of The Guild." Thereat I Rose, And From His Presence Passed, But, Going, Murmured: "To The God Above, Who Holds My Heart, And Knows Its Store Of Love, I Turn From Thee, Thou Proud Iconoclast." Then On The Shore God Stooped To Me, And Said: "He Spake The Truth: Even So The Springs Are Set That Move Thy Life, Nor Will They Suffer Let, Nor Change Their Scope; Else, Living, Thou Wert Dead. "This Is Thy Life: Indulge Its Natural Flow, And Carve These Forms. They Yet May Find A Place On Shelves For Them Reserved. In Any Case, I Bid Thee Carve Them, Knowing What I Know."