For Four Guilds: III. The Stone-Masons

We have graven the mountain of God with hands,     As our hands were graven of God, they say,     Where the seraphs burn in the sun like brands     And the devils carry the rains away;     Making a thrift of the throats of hell,     Our gargoyles gather the roaring rain,     Whose yawn is more than a frozen yell     And their very vomiting not in vain.     Wilder than all that a tongue can utter,     Wiser than all that is told in words,     The wings of stone of the soaring gutter     Fly out and follow the flight of the birds;     The rush and rout of the angel wars     Stand out above the astounded street,     Where we flung our gutters against the stars     For a sign that the first and the last shall meet.     We have graven the forest of heaven with hands,     Being great with a mirth too gross for pride,     In the stone that battered him Stephen stands     And Peter himself is petrified:     Such hands as have grubbed in the glebe for bread     Have bidden the blank rock blossom and thrive,     Such hands as have stricken a live man dead     Have struck, and stricken the dead alive.     Fold your hands before heaven in praying,     Lift up your hands into heaven and cry;     But look where our dizziest spires are saying     What the hands of a man did up in the sky:     Drenched before you have heard the thunder,     White before you have felt the snow;     For the giants lift up their hands to wonder     How high the hands of a man could go.