So little honor still remains in men,

Their souls corrupted by the glint of gold;

And of their worth, what adage to append

When to the tomb—as all men—they must go?

Should carats now define one’s character,

Or eminence be weighed upon a scale?

Should purity to acid tests defer?

Will wealth alone at heaven’s gate prevail?

By measure such, dear values we demean

And all the treasures of sweet life confound,

All purposed gifts of being, wax obscene—

The crux of human grace debased to ground.

By sculpting gods from clay of common earth,

We bow our souls to emptiness, not worth.