But, the spirit, enamoured of immortal Beauty,
He will not serve on fame’s light grudging meed;
His grateful labour, merg’d in sublime duty,
Seeks, in creation, harvest of its seed;
Beauty is his dear Lord, he loves to owe,
And grows more rich by payment; he will toil,
And watch his offspring, as they grander grow,
Outdoing Nature in their beauteous coil.
And all alone he feels, yet is not sad,
For She, the inspirer of all hearts, is near;
And Nature’s fondness makes her son look glad,
And will not, wholly, let his heart grow sear.
The artificer of the Changeless grows not tired,
He is well paid, nor cares to be admired.