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: