Classic Poem

What is this above thy head,
O Man?—
The World, all overspread
With pearls and golden rays
And gems ablaze;
A sight which day and night
Fills an eye's span.

What is this beneath thy feet,
O Saint?—
The World, a nauseous sweet
Puffed up and perishing;
A hollow thing,
A lie, a vanity,
Tinsel and paint.

What is she while time is time,
O Man?—
In a perpetual prime
Beauty and youth she hath;
And her footpath
Breeds flowers thro' dancing hours
Since time began.

While time lengthens what is she,
O Saint?—
Nought: yea, all men shall see
How she is nought at all,
When her death-pall
Of fire ends their desire
And brands her taint.

Ah, poor Man, befooled and slow
And faint!
Ah, poorest Man, if so
Thou turn thy back on bliss
And choose amiss!
For thou art choosing now:
Sinner,—or Saint.