The Builders's image
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Spring, summer, autumn, winter,
Come duly, as of old;
Winds blow, suns set, and morning saith,
'Ye hills, put on your gold.'

The song of Homer liveth,
Dead Solon is not dead;
Thy splendid name, Pythagoras,
O'er realms of suns is spread.

But Babylon and Memphis
Are letters traced in dust;
Read them, earth's tyrants I ponder well
The might in which ye trust!

They rose, while all the depths of guilt
Their vain creators sounded;
They fell, because on fraud and force
Their corner-stones were founded.

Truth, mercy, knowledge, justice,
Are powers that ever stand;
They build their temples in the soul,
And work with God's right hand.

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