Songs of Creation, 6

The stuff out of which a poem is wrought
Is not to be suck’d from the finger;
No God created the world from nought
Any more than an earthly singer.

’Twas mud primeval that form’d the source
Whence the body of man I created,
And from the ribs of man in due course
Fair woman I separated.

The heavens I form’d from out of the earth,
And angels from women completed;
The raw material first gets its worth
From being artist’cally treated.