within the house of mammon his priesthood stands alert

by mysteries attended, by dusk and splendors girt,

knowing, for faiths departed, his own shall still endure,

and they be found his chosen, untroubled, solemn, sure.

within the house of mammon the golden altar lifts

where dragon-lamps are shrouded as costly incense drifts—

a dust of old ideals, now fragrant from the coals,

to tell of hopes long-ended, to tell the death of souls

sterling.