Tax Not The Royal Saint With Vain Expense, With Ill-Matched Aims The Architect Who Planned Albeit Labouring For A Scanty Band Of White-Robed Scholars Only, This Immense And Glorious Work Of Fine Intelligence! Give All Thou Canst; High Heaven Rejects The Lore Of Nicely-Calculated Less Or More; So Deemed The Man Who Fashioned For The Sense These Lofty Pillars, Spread That Branching Roof Self-Poised, And Scooped Into Ten Thousand Cells, Where Light And Shade Repose, Where Music Dwells Lingering'And Wandering On As Loth To Die; Like Thoughts Whose Very Sweetness Yieldeth Proof That They Were Born For Immortality.