The Builders


    All are architects of Fate,
        Working in these walls of Time;
    Some with massive deeds and great,
        Some with ornaments of rhyme.

    Nothing useless is, or low;
        Each thing in its place is best;
    And what seems but idle show
        Strengthens and supports the rest.

    For the structure that we raise,
        Time is with materials filled;
    Our to-days and yesterdays
        Are the blocks with which we build.

    Truly shape and fashion these;
        Leave no yawning gaps between;
    Think not, because no man sees,
        Such things will remain unseen.

    In the elder days of Art,
        Builders wrought with greatest care
    Each minute and unseen part;
        For the Gods see everywhere.

    Let us do our work as well,
        Both the unseen and the seen;
    Make the house, where Gods may dwell,
        Beautiful, entire, and clean.

    Else our lives are incomplete,
        Standing in these walls of Time,
    Broken stairways, where the feet
        Stumble as they seek to climb.

    Build to-day, then, strong and sure,
        With a firm and ample base;
    And ascending and secure
        Shall to-morrow find its place.

    Thus alone can we attain
        To those turrets, where the eye
    Sees the world as one vast plain,
        And one boundless reach of sky.


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Return to the Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; The Burial Of The Poet

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