"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?"
from Rudyard Kipling's The Conundrum of the Workshops
Poetry: Poems of Acclaim
- My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
- Coral is far more red than her lips' red:
- If snow be white, why then her breasts be dun;
- If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
- I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
- But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
- And in some perfumes is there more delight
- Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
- I love to hear her speak, - yet well I know
- That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
- I grant I never saw a goddess go, -
- My mistress when she walks, treads on the ground;
- And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
- As any she belied with false compare.
William Shakespeare (1564-1616)