If ever this book (as Art from Thought and Sorrow)
Shall lie for sale (with Dante) in the shops,
Public (like chimes in spires) to fools and fops,
Then I must front new martyrdoms to-morrow;
Old tongues will shout: “Aside from shameless lies,
You've thieved the hearth-fire from our household gods,
Outraging private fates and sacred ties.” …
And those same tongues (awhile) shall have the odds …
Yet is the story mine … because the pain …
Was mine … the mastery of pain was mine …
And mine the shaping instinct and endeavor:
This were Art's right of eminent domain,
Even had that House itself, on seal and line,
Not canceled the ties … all ties … with me … forever.