To shape from infinite words and big-wombed thought,
The form that mimics Nature, yet transcends;
To shower beauty, from the sunbeam caught,
On one who, lofty, walks toward lofty ends;
To live within that which themselves create,
By sufferance swelling more exalted ranks,
With such communion still to recreate
The pauses of the world, whose iron harsh clanks,
In that most sweet society, how soon
To lose all sense, all memory of the earth;
Aye, this were godlike, and the priceless boon
Which Nature grudges prompters of true birth:
Holier, she bids them worship what inspires
And guides the blast that feeds Pygmalion fires.