Classic Poem

There is a building on a city square
That soars in marble to a golden dome;
A temple reared to Pleasure, and her home.
Thither, at night, her votaries repair
To worship her in wine and dainty fare.
Laughter and lights and music dance and foam
Upon the liquid hours till day be come,
Driving them like thin vapors into air.

Then do these others, creeping on all fours,
Do Pleasure's drudge-work when herself hath fled.
To them her palace nothing is but floors
And staircases, all soilure with her tread.
They crawl through empty rooms and corridors,
Gathering broken meats and crusts of bread.