When I see aged men whose eyes are blurred
With years of toil sitting resignedly
And seeing without apprehending all
That passes, gazing mildly on the herd
That still pursue gold animatedly.
They sometimes spit, and often loll and sprawl
As though the game of living were absurd.
I wonder if they think how wretchedly
Man uses this great gift of life; how small
He measures up against th’Incarnate Word !
Do their souls, loosed from the chains of greed,
Turn from the spectacle of busy ants
To contemplate the business of the saints,
And press upon the door of heaven indeed?
Weekly Times 8.4.60