It is well that there are palaces of peace
And discipline and dreaming and desire,
Lest we forget our heritage and cease
The Spirit-s work-to hunger and aspire:

Lest we forget that we were born divine,
Now tangled in red battle-s animal net,
Murder the work and lust the anodyne,
Pains of the beast -gainst bestial solace set.

But this shall never be: to us remains
One city that has nothing of the beast,
That was not built for gross, material gains,
Sharp, wolfish power or empire-s glutted feast.

We are not wholly brute. To us remains
A clean, sweet city lulled by ancient streams,
A place of visions and of loosening chains,
A refuge of the elect, a tower of dreams.

She was not builded out of common stone
But out of all men-s yearning and all prayer
That she might live, eternally our own,
The Spirit-s stronghold-barred against despair.