Sinopsis

'Man goeth forth' with reckless trust Upon his wealth of mind, As if in self a thing of dust Creative skill might find; He schemes and toils; stone, wood and ore Subject or weapon of His power. By arch and spire, by tower-girt heights, He would his boast fulfil; By marble births, and mimic lights,— Yet lacks one secret still; Where is the master-hand shall give To breathe, to move, to speak, to live? O take away this shade of might, The puny toil of man, And let great Nature in my sight Unroll her gorgeous plan; I cannot bear those sullen walls, Those eyeless towers, those tongueless halls. Art's labour'd toys of highest name Are nerveless, cold, and dumb; And man is fitted but to frame A coffin or a tomb; Well suits, when sense is 'd away, Such lifeless works the lifeless clay.