God's moonlight plays upon its painted cave,
Sifting out silver in a glorious hill,
Down thru that mighty workshop and world grave,
Now with its cosmic pulse there lying still.
Its heart is dead, its anvil cold and bent,
The mighty quarry with its side walls curled,
Where God first modeled out the firmament
And chiseled out the marble for the world.
Abysses keep their silver silences,
Sprinkled with starlight and the crying wind,
Down thru those colossal halls where revelry
Once spoke the Mason's busy happiness;
Where worlds sprang from, now ashes blind,
The shriveled womb of old eternity.