THIS loveliness is builded of despair; This tower of white strength was made to fall. O creeping Dust that folds and covers all With cloak of shadow we would scorn to wear, Come not too soon along the level air! The stones are firm that make the tower-wall, And the unyielding steel runs thin and tall Into the clouds, and with the sun is fair. Dust that was beauty of an ancient art— Grey Threatener! My plans bespoke no gleam Of steel that has to rust,—no mortared seam For finger-strength of yours to pull apart! (I think it is more wise for those who dream To keep their beauty hidden in the heart.) |