A Workman to the Gods

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!”