THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS

THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS

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 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 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 fought and they talked
 in the North and the South;

they talked and 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 ? “

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 yelk 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 son’s of Adam sit them down

and scratch with their pens in the mold-

They scratch with their pens
 in the mold 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 favor of God we might know as much-

as our father Adam knew !

                                               Rudyard Kipling 1890