Let us but say it pleased thee thus,

For Him thy heavenly abacus.

This was thine offering thou didst make

In founded hope that He

The craftsman's best would take

The cord broke and the tent

Slipped and the silken roof

Lay prone beneath the viewless hoof

Of the deliberate firmament.

We still in this terrene abode

Forlorn must tread the difficult road,

And all meek thanks and all belief

Hardly suffice to rampart grief.

Save only two or three

With undivided minds like thee,

None now remains that girds

The peregrinal loin,

And pismire artisans

Labouring to make

Yet we should anger not,

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