I Must Grow Old
I must grow old, my temple's incomplete,
From many lands and climes lie stones unplaced,
Column and cornice and jeweled panel meet, —
To build I must make haste.
No hand but mine can rear its fluted front,
No voice but mine can sing its dome to form;
Shall they forego their joyous labor wont,
While yet their ardor's warm?
Not ours to plan, rebuild and raze again,
Till night surprises us at tasks undone,
Nor leave uncrowned the walls that long have lain
Bare to the rain and sun.
In the great plan each has his task assigned,
Each must round out the dream to him revealed;
Fitting each block or gem his hand may find,
Nor rove too long afield.