Classic Poem

The Idolaters crowd into the Temple of the Vulture
And bow down to the bellied God, saying:
" Why should the children of Labor filter
" Skyey gold through their fingers?
" It has never been so. "
Upon his altar they stretch Beauty,
A young girl, naked, and stab her
So her heart-blood runs out to be lapped by dogs.
They feed to their bellied idol
The Thinkers who patiently explore
The secrets of the Treasure House;
Those who strike the rock
Causing water to gush out,
And those who make the Desert blossom
And the teachers who hold the coming generations
Between their hands and are guardians of the future,
They feed to the Obscene One.
The men who are gods;
The tall women, lilies of the world;
Who hold the lamp on high;
The weavers of music
Whose billows break against an invisible shore.
The poets, interpreters of the soul;
Who dream divinest dreams;
Wayfarers toward the sunrise peaks
They sacrifice to a monster, Love, Brotherhood and Thought
And that Tomorrow from whence we hear dim songs;
That Beauty which is beyond — estimation;
That Profit which is more than gold
And cannot be weighed.