BUILDING

The mountain summit grows apace With walls and walks and spires, The tribute to ancestral place By one of waning fires, Who never loved but haunts of men, And earned in cities, bread, Yet sought the shaggy rock and glen To lay, at last, his head.

The thrill of Nature in his craze Was like his love of play — Medicinal for some brief days, And, then, to turn away: To try the mart and measure Art With captains of his guild, Then, in the lonely mountain's heart, To dig and plan and build.

His habitation who can know, When life is but a breath? Or that his bones are safe below The cheerless den of death? Yet, in their day, all builded well, — Like warrior ants their hills, — And tender beauty haunts the cell Taste and Industry wills.

So if we leave where nothing stood Some structure pure and true, Succeeding times will count it good And others learn to do. The bookman's art is left behind And letters only vex; Write, then in stone, ye men of mind! And live as architects!