A builder is a farmer of estate
In whose aid nature lends no helping hand
No simple seeds in furrows long and straight
He sows, but must, to grow his crops, command
An endless census of designs and parts.
Nature’s seasons minds he not, and though
The atmosphere may change for clear or dire,
It is not sun and rain that makes to grow
A home, which spurns what nature’s yields require,
But human resolution, toil, and art.
No natural seeds he on his field doth spend,
But sows his lots with hands of working men.
