149
So comprehending, you might almost deem
All Earth were standing tiptoe, in a hush
Breathless, expectant of some spoken word
Breath'd from the sky or whisper'd from the sea
A spell to heal the hurt of the wounded world,
To win discordant stars to tune again.
So must we dwell with Nature till the hour
When she reveal her secret!
Amis:
Art for me!
For art is nature better'd.
Gaspard:
Say you so?
Amis:
Nature is like the ever-flowing spring
Running to waste at whiles, and breaking bounds,
Art is the wilful water canaliz'd,
