VANITY OF VANITIES

We spend our days for things which profit not, We set our heart on things. When sense is edged and blood of youth is hot, And when stiff age like ice about us clings, We spend our days for that which profits not, We set our heart on things. More worthy was the blasphemous disdain Of all God’s world of sense by stubborn saint, Ungrateful of the sunlight and the rain, Untouched by colours bending rainbows paint. More worthy was the pagan ignorance Of all save what a world of sense discloses: That found his soul above the starry dance, This in a sweet but fading heaven of roses. But us no heaven of saint nor flower delights; When sense is edged and blood of youth is hot We spend our days for things which profit not, And in the last cold days and lonely nights Wherewith our little span of living closes, We set our heart on things. What profits it, you futile little men Who, furry-coated, tethering the lightning, From here to London ride and back again? What profits it, you whose fat hands are tightening Upon the lives of others? Nay, but tell What would you profit gaining all the world? (And if there were no hell) What have you seen of loveliness unfurled In heaven above or on the earth below? Speak! What have you to show? What do you profit? If you drove a car Through Paradise you would not hear the wings! Did Michael leave the gates of God ajar (As he has done!) what would you crave but things? More houses, maybe, with a telephone, To call your own! And you, my brothers, in the dim-lit mine, Or in the town, or on the tumbling sea, Who carry in your ears the hungry whine Of wolves which hunt the woods of Poverty: What profit you, if under that same sign As they who grind you down you too advance? If on the tide of chance You (swept away) Do even as they? For close about us whir the angel wings, And near beside us sound the throbbing strings Of Paradise. The song of Brotherhood With flowers springs, and sings through all the air To that high place where Jacob’s ladder stood Tethered to chanting stars. We only dare Ignore God’s message, we alone of all His children scorn Love’s joyous festival, Spending our days for that which profits not, Setting our heart on things. When sense is edged and blood of Youth is hot, And when stiff age like ice about us clings, We spend our days for things which profit not, We set our heart on things.