Classic Poem

" The poetry is in the thought:
He's rich who owns a golden store,
Or if to beauteous forms 'tis wrought,
Or if it be but native ore. "

So says one critic; but replies
Another, " Poetry's an art:
From nature how can art arise,
In which the maker plays no part?

" For poet's but another name
For one who makes; and all must own
That naught to be true art can claim,
That nature ever makes alone.

" A man with nature must combine:
Not thought alone, but form must be
Wrought perfect in its every line
To make the art of poetry.

" How is it in the painter's art?
Is aiming at a grand design
True painting, though the hand impart
Defective color, crude outline?

" In sculpture, is it deemed enough
To hold a grand thought in the brain,
Or must the marble's plastic stuff
Through perfect form the thought make plain?

" Is music only noble sounds?
Or, ranging on through every key,
Must some fine scheme, with notes and bounds,
Shape all to some grand harmony?

" So poetry's not only thought;
But thought by fancy's fires made warm;
Then by some master workman wrought
To perfect beauty's perfect form. "