When I went down the gallery,
A million shapes of clay
Stood in the selfsame way
Upon their pedestàls of ebony,
And each one turned his solemn face
Toward the selfsame place.

When I went into the workshop,
There did I see—
Gnarled as an old oak tree
That crouches on a mountain top—
The one who made those shapes of clay
With faces all one way.

Oh then did I, a rebel bold,
With dreams lit candlewise
Before my startled eyes.
Seize the wet clay and think to mould
Myself that shape of winged thought
Which I in vain had sought.

Lovely it grew beneath my hand.
Fair as a spirit lit
'Mong lost souls of the pit ;—
I laughed to think how it would stand,
Shaming his clumsy gallery
Who worked, nor heeded me.

But in an hour I lay at rest,
Hedged round by dreams,—alack
He of the crooked back
Came with his sour old lips compressed,
His fingers took my lovely clay
And turned it his own way.