The sun beats hard upon thy roof,
The tree’s cool shadow waves aloof;
Thou dost not heed, nor speak in ire,
Nor wound thy calm with vain desire.
The cones that patter as they fall,
The drifts that build thine outer wall,
The rains that glisten in the trace
Of thine inscription, dimmed apace,
The winds that blow, the birds that sing,—
Thou carest not for any thing!