Cx

Is--for the hour, observe! Since something to my mind Suggested soon the fancy, nay, certitude that change, Never suspending touch, continued to derange What architecture, we, walled up within the cirque O' the world, consider fixed as fate, not fairy-work. For those were temples, sure, which tremblingly grew blank From bright, then broke afresh in triumph,--ah, but sank As soon, for liquid change through artery and vein O' the very marble wound its way! And first a stain Would startle and offend amid the glory; next, Spot swift succeeded spot, but found me less perplexed By portents; then, as 't were, a sleepiness soft stole Over the stately fane, and shadow sucked the whole Façade into itself, made uniformly earth What was a piece of heaven; till, lo, a second birth, And the veil broke away because of something new Inside, that pushed to gain an outlet, paused in view At last, and proved a growth of stone or brick or wood Which, alien to the aim o' the Builder, somehow stood The test, could satisfy, if not the early race For whom he built, at least our present populace, Who must not bear the blame for what, blamed, proves mishap Of the Artist: his work gone, another fills the gap, Serves the prime purpose so. Undoubtedly there spreads Building around, above, which makes men lift their heads To look at, or look through, or look--for aught I care-- Over: if only up, it is, not down, they stare. "Commercing with the skies," and not the pavement in the Square.