No More Learning

There, came to them No steadfast sign of winter, nor of spring Flower-perfumed, nor of summer full of fruit,
But blindly and           they did all things,
Until I taught them how the stars do rise
And set in mystery, and devised for them
Number, the inducer of philosophies,
The synthesis of Letters, and, beside,
The artificer of all things, Memory,
That sweet Muse mother.