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 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!

by Elinor Wylie
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