They climbed on sketchy ladders towards God,
With winch and pulley hoisted hewn rock into heaven,
Inhabited the sky with hammers, defied gravity,
Deified stone, took up God's house to meet him,
And came down to their suppers and small beer,
Every night slept, lay with their smelly wives,
Quarrelled and cuffed the children, lied,
Spat, sang, were happy, or unhappy,
And every day took to the ladders again;
Impeded the rights of way of another summer's
Swallows, grew greyer, shakier, became less inclined
To fix a neighbour's roof of a fine evening,
Saw naves sprout arches, clerestories soar,
Cursed the loud fancy glaziers for their luck,
Somehow escaped the plague, got rheumatism,
Decided it was time to give it up,
To leave the spire to others, stood in the crowd,
Well back from the vestments at the consecration,
Envied the fat bishop his warm boots,
Cocked a squint eye aloft, and said, 'I bloody did that.'
This poem brought tears to my eyes. I'm a tradesman and been working on Inigo Jones's church at Covent Garden for fifteen years. When I finally can't climb the sketchy ladders anymore I want this poem read at my funeral. Beautiful! ! !
Seeing the flames engulf Notre dame, I've been re-reading this beautiful poem with tears stinging my eyes.
I'm reading this poem on the eve of the fire at Notre Dame de Paris as the immaculate work of thousands of cathedral builders whose names we don’t know, is reduced to ash. In the face of this loss for humanity, I send my thanks to them and the poet for articulating my appreciation beautifully.
I'm reading this poem on the eve of the fire at Notre Dame de Paris as the immaculate work of thousands of cathedral builders whose names we don’t know is being reduced to ash. In the face of this loss for humanity, I send my thanks to them and the poet for articulating my appreciation beautifully.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
good one, thanks, go on writing.