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a temple in his youth, so fair—
 * So lofty in conception and design,
 * It seemed like some creation half divine,

A fitting place for penitence and prayer. With selfless zeal he wrought, his only care To give his best—his all—and build a shrine
 * That should afar for longing pilgrims shine,

Calling their weary souls to worship there.

But long neglected now the temple stands,
 * Its crumbling walls with rusted ivy hung,

And he who built it with the eager hands
 * And shining hope of youth now sits among
 * The money-changers at the market-place
 * Suspicious, calculating, cold of face.