The Work Under Our Labour

The Redundant Locks, Robustious To No Purpose, Clustering Down--vast Monument Of Strength.

And So Sepúlchred In Such Pomp Dost Lie, That Kings For Such A Tomb Would Wish To Die.

They Who Have Put Out The People's Eyes Reproach Them Of Their Blindness.

No Institution Which Does Not Continually Test Its Ideals, Techniques And Measure Of Accomplishment Can Claim Real Vitality.

And Fast By, Hanging In A Golden Chain, This Pendent World, In Bigness As A Star Of Smallest Magnitude, Close By The Moon.