What feeds the senses would not please the mind,
Which wants that richness that is its alone.
Though men call real the stuff their senses find,
’Tis but the earth in which the real is sown.
Untended to, the world is simple sound
Without a chord harmonious in the throng.
In works of mind can sweeter notes be found;
We must make silence as we must make song.
So let us cultivate our garden here
As midwives of the beautiful and good.
Creation is communion. Be of cheer
To mime the Maker, as the artist should,
Who in the senses and the mind can see
Both what life is, as well’s what life could be.