Brother artist, help me; come! br Artists are a maimed band: br I have words but not a hand; br Thou hast hands though thou art dumb. br br Had I thine, when words did fail- br Vassal-words their hasting chief, br On the white awaiting leaf br Shapes of power should tell the tale. br br Had I hers of music-might, br I would shake the air with storm br Till the red clouds trailed enorm br Boreal dances through the night. br br Had I his whose foresight rare br Piles the stones with lordliest art, br From the quarry of my heart br Love should climb a heavenly stair! br br Had I his whose wooing slow br Wins the marble's hidden child, br Out in passion undefiled br Stood my Psyche, white as snow! br br Maimed, a little help I pray; br Words suffice not for my end; br Let thy hand obey thy friend, br Say for me what I would say. br br Draw me, on an arid plain br With hoar-headed mountains nigh, br Under a clear morning sky br Telling of a night of rain, br br Huge and half-shaped, like a block br Chosen for sarcophagus br By a Pharaoh glorious, br One rude solitary rock. br br Cleave it down along the ridge br With a fissure yawning deep br To the heart of the hard heap, br Like the rent of riving wedge. br br Through the cleft let hands appear, br Upward pointed with pressed palms br As if raised in silent psalms br For salvation come anear. br br Turn thee now-'tis almost done!- br To the near horizon's verge: br Make the smallest arc emerge br Of the forehead of the sun. br br One thing more-I ask too much!- br From a brow which hope makes brave br Sweep the shadow of the grave br With a single golden touch. br br Thanks, dear painter; that is all. br If thy picture one day should br Need some words to make it good, br I am ready to thy call.