I wiped away the weeds and foam, I fetched my sea-born treasures home; But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore, With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar.
I like a church; I like a cowl; I like a prophet of the soul; And on my heart monastic aisles Fall like sweet strains or pensive smiles: Yet not for all his faith can see Would I that cowléd churchman be.
The hand that rounded Peters dome, And groined the aisles of Christian Rome, Wrought in a sad sincerity; Himself from God he could not free; He builded better than he knew: The conscious stone to beauty grew.
Earth laughs in flowers to see her boastful boys Earth-proud, proud of the earth which is not theirs; Who steer the plough, but can not steer their feet Clear of the grave.