Whether It Be That We In Letters Trace The Pure Exactness Of A Wood Bird'S Strain, And Name It Song; Or With The Brush Attain The High Perfection Of A Wildflower'S Face; Or Mold In Difficult Marble All The Grace We Know As Man; Or From The Wind And Rain Catch Elemental Rapture Of Refrain And Mark In Music To Due Time And Place: The Aim Of Art Is Nature; To Unfold Her Truth And Beauty To The Souls Of Men In Close Suggestions; In Whose Forms Is Cast Nothing So New But 'Tis Long Eons Old; Nothing So Old But 'Tis As Young As When The Mind Conceived It In The Ages Past.