Classic Poem

Beware of avarice! It is the sin
That hath no pardon either in death or here,
For it means cruelty. Hatred and fear
Enter the soul, and are the lords therein.
The gold that gathers at the rich man's knees
Is stored with curses and with dead men's bones,
And women's cries and little children's moans,
The harvest of ten thousand miseries.
What needs it to be rich — only a soul,
Deaf to the shaken tongue and blind to tears,
The sordid patience of the sightless mole!
Would'st thou thus waste the sacred span of years?
Lock up the doors of life and break the key,
The simple heart-touch with humanity?