But by the altar everywhere
I find the money-changer’s stall;
And littering every temple-stair
The sick and sore like maggots crawl....
And always divers undertones
Within the roaring tempest throb—
The chink of gold, the laborer’s groans,
The infant’s wail, the woman’s sob.
Hoarsely they beg of Fate to give
A little lightening of their woe,