Well, it is gone at last, the palace of music I reared;
⁠Gone! and the good tears start, the praises that come too slow;
For one is assured at first, one scarce can say that he feared,
⁠That he even gave it a thought, the gone thing was to go.
Never to be again! But many more of the kind
⁠As good, nay, better perchance: is this your comfort to me?
To me, who must be saved because I cling with my mind
⁠To the same, same self, same love, same God: ay, what was, shall be.

Therefore to whom turn I but to Thee, the ineffable Name?
⁠Builder and maker, Thou, of houses not made with hands!
What, have fear of change from Thee who art ever the same?