Arch after arch set in the brick,
Rosettes along them, pebble-thick;
Draped, helmed, armed figures, scribes with scrolls,
And eagles in their leafy holes:
An immobility so high
And wide is like a demon sky—
And what am I—what’s anyone?—
Beneath the barricaded sun?
My teacher, say, who banked her blood,
Fearing the worst (it did no good),
Who (so it goes) could not forget
What she was made of, and how set
Against this by a firing squad?
What is there on our side but God,
Who only incidentally made stone,
But lived and bled for you and me alone?