Verse

The Conundrum of the Workshops
By Rudyard Kipling

WHEN the flush of a new­born sun fell first on Eden’s green and gold,
Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mold;
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,
Till the Devil whis­pered behind the leaves: “It’s pretty, but is it Art?”

Wherefore he called to his wife and fled to fash­ion his work anew—
The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;
And he left his lore to the use of his sons—and that was a glo­ri­ous gain
When the Devil chuck­led: “Is it Art?” in the ear of the branded Cain.

They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,
Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: “It’s strik­ing, but is it Art?“
The stone was dropped by the quarry-side, and the idle der­rick swung,
While each man talked of the aims of art, and each in an alien tongue.

They fought and they talked in the north and the south, they talked and they fought in the west,
Till the waters rose on the jab­ber­ing land, and the poor Red Clay had rest—
Had rest till the dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start,
And the Devil bub­bled below the keel: “It’s human, but is it Art?”

The tale is old as the Eden Tree—as new as the new-cut tooth—
For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is mas­ter of Art and Truth;
And each man hears as the twi­light nears, to the beat of his dying heart,
The Devil drum on the dark­ened pane: “You did it, but was it Art?”

We have learned to whit­tle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg,
We have learned to bot­tle our par­ents twain in the yolk of an addled egg,
We know that the tail must wag the dog, as the horse is drawn by the cart;
But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: “It’s clever, but is it Art?”

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