And every thirst for truth is gift divine,
The gifts of God are not to me unclean
Though strangely honoured at an unknown shrine.
In temples of the past my spirit fain
For old-time strength and vigour would implore
As in a ruined abbey, fairer for
"The unimaginable touch of time"
We long for the sincerity of yore.
But this is not man's mood, in his regime
Sweet "calm decay" becomes mischance unmeet,