THE OVERFAITHFUL sword returns the user|
His heart’s desire at price of his heart’s blood.
The clamour of the arrogant accuser
Wastes that one hour we needed to make good.
This was foretold of old at our outgoing;
This we accepted who have squandered, knowing,
The strength and glory of our reputations,
At the day’s need, as it were dross, to guard
The tender and new-dedicate foundations ?
Against the sea we fear—not man’s award.
They that dig foundations deep,|
Fit for realms to rise upon,
Little honour do they reap
Of their generation,
Any more than mountains gain
Stature till we reach the plain.
With no veil before their face
Through the night when hirelings rest
Not by lust of praise or show
On the stage their act bath framed
Lesser men feign greater goals,
These at labour make no sign,
For, so the Ark be borne to Zion, who|
Heeds how they perished or were paid that bore it ?
For, so the Shrine abide, what shame—what pride—
If we, the priests, were bound or crowned before it?