This squat edifice, toad-like and beautiful
   in its Doric immobility,

Clings fast to the earth and holds 
   heavens high in their place,

A thing of mass, of solidity, of safety
   for thinkers and gods within;

A temple of Pythagoras, who drifts
   among columns, circles, angles,

Who gathers with ethereal colleagues
   around a great hewn table

To debate the path to Truth absolute, 
   and other worthy futilities.

Late at night their voices sound
   like the breeze-ruffled owl asking, "Who?"

And the tired carping of crows, trying
   to sleep in their dark canopy above.