Glory to them the toilers of the art
Who wrought with knotted hands in wood, glass, and stone
Dreams their unlettered minds could not give birth
And symmetries their should had never known.
Glory to them the artisans, who spread
Cathedrals like brown lace before the sun
Who could not build a rhyme, but reared instead
The Doric grander of the Parthenon,
I never cross a marble Portico
Or lift my eyes where stained glass windows steal
From Virgin sunlight moods of deeper glow
Or walk down peopled streets, except to feel
A hush of reverence for that vast dead,
Who gave us beauty for a crust of bread.