What thought has He of us, three motesOf breath, three scattered notesIn His grand symphony, the world?Once we were blown, once we were hurledIn place, we were as soon forgot.He might not linger on one dotWhen there were bars and staves to flingAbout, for waiting stars to sing.When Rome was a suckling, when Greece was young,Then there were Gods fit to be sung,Who paid the loyal devoteeFor service rendered zealously,In coin a man might feel and spend,Not marked 'Deferred to Journey's End.'The servant then was worth his hire;He went unscathed through flood and fire;Gods were a thing then to admire.'Bow down and worship us,' they said.'You shall be clothed be housed and fed,While yet you live, not when you're dead.Strong are our arms where yours are weak.On them that harm you will we wreakThe vengeance of a God though theyWere Gods like us in every way.Not merely is an honor laidOn those we touch with our accolade;
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