Monstrous sacrilege, O when before
Has thing so big been made for end so small?
Unholy Temple of the priests of lucre,
How most appropriate thy pallor is,
So like in color to the tint of bones—
Thy slender, upright lines so much like bones—
So much like children’s bones.
How like unto the pyramids thou art;
The tyrants’ tombs, built by a million slaves.
And like the pyramids, ere long