With words for chains, in links of prose or rhyme,
We proudly fix the Homeless in his place;
Naming Eternity, we think of time;
Naming Infinity, we think of space;
Of the worm's path, whose crawling's we can trace
On vast immutabilities of dust;
The deathless monuments of human trust,
Which passing hours, or moments, still efface.
Proud of our foolscap, and its jangled bells;
Blind to the All-Apparent, All-Unknown,
Who tips with suns his spires and pinnacles;
Our ignorance on our vanity we enthrone,
And in a little chapel of our own
Creep to the worship of dead syllables.