WHEN the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden’s green and
gold,
Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in
the mould;
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 fought and they talked in the North and the South, they talked
and they fought in the West,
Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had
rest--
Had rest till that 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?”
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 at the quarry-side, and the idle derrick
swung,
While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien
tongue.
The tale is as old as the Eden Tree, and 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, for the horse is drawn by
the cart;
But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old, “It’s clever, but is it
Art?”
When the flicker of London Sun falls faint on the Club-room’s green
and gold,
The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the
mould;
They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves, and the
ink and the anguish start,
For the Devil mutters behind the leaves, “It’s pretty, but is it
Art?”
Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers
flow,
And the Wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago,
And if we could come when the sentry slept and softly scurry
through,
By the favour of God we might know as much--as our father Adam knew!
_Rudyard Kipling._