Work of wise builders, where a welcome waits,
With keys to life, within the gates.
That riddle many have tried, and not guessed;
They wander, spirit in flesh; nowhere rest.
Spirit trumpets down from tower, spire and hall;
They cannot hearken to the call.
Smothered in that they worship—wealth, power, birth—
Dream they are growing wings, and rot on earth!
Self-courted woes, suicide of the brain,
Dark chos’n for light, tortures in vain