Apprentices

We who praise poets with our labouring pen And justify ourselves with laud of men Have not the right to call our own our own, Being but the ground-sprouts from those great trees grown. The crafted art, the smooth curve, and surety Come not of nature till the apprentice free Of trouble with his tools, and cobwebbed cuts, Spies out a path his own and casts his plots. Then looking back on four-square edifices And wind-and-weather standing tall houses He stakes a court and tries his unpaid hand; Begins a life who salt is arid sand; Of cactus whose bread comes, whose wine is clear, Being bitter water from fount all too near. Happy if after toil he grow to worth And prise of complete men of earlier birth Of happier pen and more steel-propertied Nerves of the capable and the mighty dead.