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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=510945" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Conundrum Of The Workshops</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,<br>Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;<br>And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,<br>Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, &quot;It's pretty, but is it Art?&quot;<br> <br>Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew --<br>The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;<br>And he left his lore to the use of his sons -- and that was a glorious gain<br>When the Devil chuckled &quot;Is it Art?&quot; in the ear of the branded Cain.<br> <br>They fought and they talked in the North and the South,<br> they talked and they fought in the West,<br>Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had rest --<br>Had rest till that dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start,<br>And the Devil bubbled below the keel: &quot;It's human, but is it Art?&quot;<br> <br>They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,<br>Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: &quot;It's striking, but is it Art?&quot;<br>The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung,<br>While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue.<br> <br>The tale is as old as the Eden Tree -- and new as the new-cut tooth --<br>For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth;<br>And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart,<br>The Devil drum on the darkened pane: &quot;You did it, but was it Art?&quot;<br> <br>We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg,<br>We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yelk of an addled egg,<br>We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the horse is drawn by the cart;<br>But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: &quot;It's clever, but is it Art?&quot;<br> <br>When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the Club-room's green and gold,<br>The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mould --<br>They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves,<br> and the ink and the anguish start,<br>For the Devil mutters behind the leaves: &quot;It's pretty, but is it Art?&quot;<br> <br>Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers flow,<br>And the Wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago,<br>And if we could come when the sentry slept and softly scurry through,<br>By the favour of God we might know as much -- as our father Adam knew!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Rudyard+Kipling">Rudyard Kipling</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=510945" data-title="The Conundrum Of The Workshops de Rudyard Kipling" data-description="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 whisper..."></div>
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