HOW true thy work, blind Builder of the homes
Which throng the paths of Life, beasts, fishes, birds,
All things which be, they are as bodied words,
Or moving thoughts of some high whole which looms
Above us in the star-dust and the mist,
Around us in the voices of the night,
Within us in quick glimpses of love-light
That leave us doubting if we dreamed or wist.

But true thy art, its unmeant meanings telling,
Blind Builder of the city, on whose crown
Man stands—a temple for a God's indwelling,
Thy finest—no! thy sole false work—Cast down
The lying altar, raze it to the sod,—
What means a temple where there is no God?