There is no architect
        Can build as the Muse can;
She is skilful to select
        Materials for her plan;

Slow and warily to choose
        Rafters of immortal pine,
Or cedar incorruptible,
        Worthy her design,

She threads dark Alpine forests
        Or valleys by the sea,
In many lands, with painful steps,
        Ere she can find a tree.

She ransacks mines and ledges
        And quarries every rock,
To hew the famous adamant
        For each eternal block—

She lays her beams in music,
        In music every one,
To the cadence of the whirling world
        Which dances round the sun—

That so they shall not be displaced
        By lapses or by wars,
But for the love of happy souls
        Outlive the newest stars.