But, in our daily dealing
    With stone and steel, we find
The Gods have no such feeling
    Of justice toward mankind.
To no set gauge they make us,—
    For no laid course prepare—
And presently o’ertake us
    With loads we cannot bear:
        Too merciless to bear.

The prudent text-books give it
    In tables at the end—
The stress that shears a rivet
    Or makes a tie-bar bend—
What traffic wrecks macadam—
    What concrete should endure—
But we, poor Sons of Adam,
    Have no such literature,
        To warn us or make sure!

We hold all Earth to plunder—
    All Time and Space as well
Too wonder-stale to wonder
    At each new miracle;
Till, in the mid-illusion
    Of Godhead ’neath our hand,
Falls multiple confusion
    On all we did or planned—
        The mighty works we planned.

We only of Creation
    (Oh, luckier bridge and rail!)
Abide the twin-damnation—
    To fail and know we fail.
Yet we—by which sole token
    We know we once were Gods—
Take shame in being broken
    However great the odds
        The Burden or the Odds.

Oh, veiled and secret Power
    Whose paths we seek in vain,
Be with us in our hour
    Of overthrow and pain;
That we—by which sure token
    We know Thy ways are true—
In spite of being broken,
    Because of being broken,
        May rise and build anew.
        Stand up and build anew!