With nervous yearning, haste they on their way:
A few direct and rule the work of all;
But most are bringing mortar, stone and clay--
(And some there are that rise, and others fall;
And they are seen no more--we know not why.)
But all are working on the palace wall;
And some invent designs to please the eye;
And some would fain extend the rooms to win
New-fashioned blisses. A soft-moaning cry
Is vibrant in the air. High-pitched and thin,
It quavers dimly, then descends again,
And echoes aimless through the busy din:
Mankind would add to pleasure, but in vain--
For Pleasure's Palace is a house of pain.