Seven Sonnets and a Canzone Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I

THE ARTIST

Nothing the greatest artist can conceive
       &nbsp That every marble block doth not confine
       &nbsp Within itself; and only its design
       &nbsp The hand that follows intellect can achieve.
The ill I flee, the good that I believe,
       &nbsp In thee, fair lady, lofty and divine,
       &nbsp Thus hidden lie; and so that death be mine
       &nbsp Art, of desired success, doth me bereave.
Love is not guilty, then, nor thy fair face,
       &nbsp Nor fortune, cruelty, nor great disdain,
       &nbsp Of my disgrace, nor chance, nor destiny,
If in thy heart both death and love find place
       &nbsp At the same time, and if my humble brain,
       &nbsp Burning, can nothing draw but death from thee.

II

FIRE

Not without fire can any workman mould
       &nbsp The iron to his preconceived design,
       &nbsp Nor can the artist without fire refine
       &nbsp And purify from all its dross the gold;
Nor can revive the phoenix, we are told,
       &nbsp Except by fire. Hence if such death be mine
       &nbsp I hope to rise again with the divine,
       &nbsp Whom death augments, and time cannot make old.
O sweet, sweet death! O fortunate fire that burns
       &nbsp Within me still to renovate my days,
       &nbsp Though I am almost numbered with the dead!
If by its nature unto heaven returns
       &nbsp This element, me, kindled in its blaze,
       &nbsp Will it bear upward when my life is fled.