Classic Poem

In massive Gothic majesty it stands,
Harbor of peace amid a sea of strife;
It offers to the sons of many lands
A port and haven from the storm of life.

The cross of gold upon the spire's crest
Gleamed like a beacon in the noonday sun;
The roofs and chimneys that beneath it pressed
Seemed dwarfs and pigmies to the towers dun.

But now from windowed heights on every side,
Turning the page of profit and of loss,
Far o'er the squirming, jostling human tide,
Dollar-dimmed eyes look down upon the cross.

The market closes weak, the margin's small,
Stocks are as vapor, bonds but bubbles; when
For loan of life there's no collateral,
We must look upward to the cross again.