If we were made of stone or wood,
This space we kept, when we were gone
Resuming empty quietude
Would show no change to think upon.
Our anxious blood and stormy breath
Assailed this calm with restless sound
Where our quick hearts confuted death
The whirling motes of dust go round.
Wherefore the dark that finds this place
Will never make it solitude.
Unquiet thought must leave its trace—
The air is troubled where we stood.