Pressing a wasteful hand on mortal things,
Reveals this young eternity in man.
The peasant, he may earn it with the king,
And tread an equal palace full of light.
Fleet youth may seize this crown: slow-footed age
May wear its immortality. Behold!
Its power can turn bare rafters to a home
Hallowed with hopes and hushed with memories;
Can turn a field of ruin to a place
Where pilgrims keep the watches of the night.