And think of Summer in their dark December,
So Manchester and Liverpool may wonder,
And bow to old halls over which they ponder,
Unknowing that man's spirit yearns to all
Which—once lost—prayers can never more recall.
The storied piles of mortar, brick, and stone,
Where trade bids noise and gain to struggle on,
Competing for the prize that Mammon gives—
Youth killed by toil and profits bought with lives—
Will not prevent the quiet, thinking mind