Classic Poem

Ours is the fault of the eye,
Which kens but the outer show,
Which cannot pierce to the core,
But ever mistakes the hollow
For solid and weighty and firm,
The empty for the full;
Pleased with the painted shell,
Demands not a kernel within.

So, since first men learned
To live, not each alone,
But each with all allied,
The nations, with shallow thought,
Ever have more esteemed
The building of the house
Than living nobly therein;
Ever have throned and crowned
The guides of ploughshare and sail,
The masters of kine and coin,
The wethers of human flocks,
The framers of pacts and rules,
Not them who, mixing soul
With sound in a spheral chime,
Nor them who, revealing on earth
The heavens of hue and form,
Teach men to live as gods.