From the pillar, Aldous Huxley


FROM THE PILLAR

SIMEON, the withered stylite,

  Sat gloomily looking down

Upon each roof and skylight

  In all the seething town.

 

And in every upper chamber,

  On roofs, where the orange flowers

Make weary men remember

  The perfume of long-dead hours,

 

He saw the wine-drenched riot

  Of harlots and human beasts,

And how celestial quiet

  Was shattered by their feasts.

 

The steam of fetid vices

  From a thousand lupanars,

Like smoke of sacrifices,

  Reeked up to the heedless stars.

 

And the saint from his high fastness

  Of purity apart

Cursed them and their unchasteness,

  And envied them in his heart.



The end