By passion swayed like tree in tempest blast,
All wish for good and right aside he cast.
One satisfaction yet remained to him—
The flight of time should not his victory dim;
His palace walls should bear upon their face,
In carvings deep that time would ne’er erase,
His triumph over all who strove in vain
To hold him back from what he would attain.
And thus ’twas writ above his palace door,
Above the polished, crimson-painted floor.