The Builders

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.