Thither, while yet a boy, I did resort     

       And out of terra-cotta caused to smile     

       Women whose beauty ne'er hath been surpassed,     

       Nor equalled in the flesh for Man's delight.     

  

       Still not content, I'd be an architect     

       And renovate this battered world for God,     

       Hurling across steep valleys, mile on mile     

       Through cloudland, spans of marble aqueduct;     

       Leading chained rivers from the mountain-heights     

       Down to the plains where men are wont to toil,     

       There I would cause these Samsons of the crags,     

       Scenting the sea, whose waves are unconfined,     

       To shake themselves as once at other times,     

       And rush in frenzy forward turning mills.     

       So would each city echo to the hum     

       Of loom, and web, and swift-revolving wheels.     

       Then, when prosperity had reached its height     

       And merhants cavilled at each other's gains,     

       I'd frame for them the iron beasts of war     

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