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But thou, king, hadst more reasonably said:
“Let progress end at once–man make no step
Beyond the natural man, the better beast,
Using his senses, not the sense of sense.”
In man there’s failure, only since he left
The lower and inconscious forms of life.
We called it an advance, the rendering plain
Man’s spirit might grow conscious of man’s life,
And, by new lore so added to the old,
Take each step higher over the brute’s head. 230
This grew the only life, the pleasure-house,
Watch-tower and treasure-fortress of the soul,
Which whole surrounding flats of natural life
Seemed only fit to yield subsistence to;
A tower that crowns a country. But alas,
The soul now climbs it just to perish there!
For thence we have discovered (‘t is no dream–
We know this, which we had not else perceived)
That there’s a world of capability
For joy, spread round about us, meant for us, 240
Inviting us; and still the soul craves all,
And still the flesh replies, “Take no jot more
Than ere thou clombst the tower to look abroad!
Nay, so much less as that fatigue has brought
Deduction to it.” We struggle, fain to enlarge
Our bounded physical recipiency,
Increase our power, supply fresh oil to life,
Repair the waste of age and sickness: no,
It skills not! life’s inadequate to joy,
As the soul sees joy, tempting life to take. 250
They praise a fountain in my garden here
Wherein a Naiad sends the water-bow
Thin from her tube; she smiles to see it rise.
What if I told her, it is just a thread
From that great river which the hills shut up,
And mock her with my leave to take the same?
The artificer has given her one small tube
Past power to widen or exchange–what boots
To know she might spout oceans if she could?
She cannot lift beyond her first thin thread; 260
And so a man can use but a man’s joy
While he sees God’s. Is it for Zeus to boast,
“See, man, how happy I live, and despair–
That I may be still happier–for thy use!”
If this were so, we could not thank our Lord,
As hearts beat on to doing; ’tis not so–
Malice it is not. Is it carelessness?
Still, no. If care–where is the sign? I ask,
And get no answer, and agree in sum,
0 king, with thy profound discouragement, 270
Who seest the wider but to sigh the more.
Most progress is most failure: thou sayest well.

The last point now:–thou dost except a case–
Holding joy not impossible to one
With artist-gifts–to such a man as I
Who leave behind me living works indeed;
For, such a poem, such a painting lives.
What? dost thou verily trip upon a word,
Confound the accurate view of what joy is
(Caught somewhat clearer by my eyes than thine) 280
With feeling joy? confound the knowing how
And showing how to live (my faculty)
With actually living?–Otherwise
Where is the artist’s vantage o’er the king?
Because in my great epos I display
How divers men young, strong, fair, wise, can act–
Is this as though I acted? if I paint,
Carve the young Phoebus, am I therefore young?
Methinks I’m older that I bowed myself
The many years of pain that taught me art! 290
Indeed, to know is something, and to prove
How all this beauty might be enjoyed, is more;
But, knowing naught, to enjoy is something too.
Yon rower, with the moulded muscles there,
Lowering the sail, is nearer it than I.
I can write love-odes: thy fair slave’s an ode.
I get to sing of love, when grown too gray
For being beloved: she turns to that young man,
The muscles all a-ripple on his back.
I know the joy of kingship: well, thou art king! 300