This is the bricklayer; hear the thud Of his heavy load dumped down on stone. His lustrous bricks are brighter than blood, His smoking mortar whiter than bone. Set each sharp-edged, fire-bitten brick Straight by the plumb-line's shivering length; Make my marvelous wall so thick Dead nor living may shake its strength. Full as a crystal cup with drink Is my cell with dreams, and quiet, and cool. . . . Stop, old man! You must leave a chink; How can I breathe? You can't, you fool!