Now that the tower is standing,
Stone upon stone in flower,
What of its soul — the master,
The maker of the tower?

Walking in mist of evening
Humbly amid the crowd
Beside the wide way's traffic,
Thoughtful perhaps, and bowed,

And pondering some failure
That shook his earlier days,
What exaltation waits him,
When upward he shall gaze

And see in sudden outline,
Mysterious and high,
Beauty, his own creation,
Imposed against the sky!