What king they house, nor what his death and day,
Nor how he lived, are eloquent of you,
Naked and nameless modellers of clay.
You have no monument, yet every king
Who built a tomb for his remembering
Built with the marble you could hew and bring;
And every conqueror who set a tower
To mark forever his triumphal power
Marked but your skill that labored there an hour;
And every prophet who cried out the Word
Cried only meanings that your hearts had heard,
Hearing the twilight silence and the bird.
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