How should the world be luckier if this house，

    Where passion and precision have been one

    Time out of mind， became too ruinous

    To breed the lidless eye that loves the sun？

    And the sweet laughing eagle thoughts that grow

    Where wings have memory of wings， and all

    That comes of the best knit to the best？ Although

    Mean roof-trees were the sturdier for its fall，

    How should their luck run high enough to reach

    The gifts that govern men， and after these

    To gradual Time‘s last gift， a written speech

    Wrought of high laughter， loveliness and ease？