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.
