There is the gate,
Let us enter,
Ere it is late,
Into the city.

Why do you linger?
In the center—
Follow my finger—
Life works with pity.

Out of the dust
Of men's dreams,
Compassionate, just,
Buildeth such marvelous things, it seems;

In a marvelous way,—
Dome, pinnacle, and spire,
A cloud by day,
By night a fire.