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?