Spring, summer, autumn, winter, br Come duly, as of old; br Winds blow, suns set, and morning saith, br 'Ye hills, put on your gold.' br br The song of Homer liveth, br Dead Solon is not dead; br Thy splendid name, Pythagoras, br O'er realms of suns is spread. br br But Babylon and Memphis br Are letters traced in dust; br Read them, earth's tyrants I ponder well br The might in which ye trust! br br They rose, while all the depths of guilt br Their vain creators sounded; br They fell, because on fraud and force br Their corner-stones were founded. br br Truth, mercy, knowledge, justice, br Are powers that ever stand; br They build their temples in the soul, br And work with God's right hand.