Though he knows not jot nor tittle Of Art's canons, works, or ways; Though his wage is passing little, And he wins but the street's praise; Though a clown his audience calls him, Yet 'tis plain beyond a doubt That another Power enthralls him Than the gaping rabble rout; For there's something in the folly Of his sorriest mimic part, Radiant, rhythmic, melancholy, Which is Art and only Art. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO KNOW IN REVERIE THE ONLY PHENOMENOLOGY OF THE ABSOLUTE by HAYDEN CARRUTH BUT NOT TO ME by SARA TEASDALE THE AGONY [AGONIE] by GEORGE HERBERT HIS SAVIOURS WORDS, GOING TO THE CROSSE by ROBERT HERRICK THE OLD CAMP; WRITTEN IN A ROMAN FORTIFICATION IN BAVARIA by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN THE WIND AND THE WHIRLWIND by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |