This is man's noblest edifice. All else Crumbles and rots. His loftiest stone is thrust Into the patient and ironic dust. His iron ships, his scornful citadels Are scattered by a whiff of fiery shells That mingle with them in a pool of rust. But words, mere words, invulnerable, august, Become his statesmen and his sentinels. He lets them do his fighting; sits and calls On them to keep the world from going free. They build him stubborn forts where he can be Safe from his manhood, its demands and brawls; While Life, foiled by this soft security, Beats futile hands on vague, invisible walls. |