A Workman to the Gods

Edwin Markham

Once Phidias stood, with hammer in his hand,

Carving Minerva from the breathing stone,

Tracing with love the winding of a hair,

A single hair upon her head, whereon

A youth of Athens cried, “O Phidias,

Why do you dally on a hidden hair?

When she is lifted to the lofty front

Of the Parthenon, no human eye will see.”

And Phidias thundered on him: “Silence, slave:

Men will not see, but the Immortals will!”