Classic Poem

The city has a million lights;
They blaze on shops and shows and bars,
Through all the blaring, crowded nights
They dim the glory of the stars.

But in the day, one only sees
Dull frames and hoardings where these stood,
Unlit by flashing witcheries —
Poor things of lettering and wood.

And high above the domes and towers,
Glowing and glorious and bright,
God swings his sign for working hours, —
His undimmed, golden sphere of light.

Before the door of heaven, the sun;
Before the marts of men, the mean
And burned-out lights of Babylon, —
And we — bewildered moths — between.