The falling is the constant mate of fear, And feel of emptiness is the feel of fright. Who throws us the stones from the height -- And stones here refuse the dust to bear? Once, striding in a monk's unbending mode, You pierced the yard from rim to other rim; The cobble-stones and the coarse dream -- Have thirst for death and sadness of the broad- Let Gothic shelter be in ruins turned Where ceiling serves as a deceptive fable, And in the heath the gaily logs don't burn! A few here for eternity were born; But if your mind has only instant label Your lot is awful and your home