I Care Not For The Miser's Gold Poem by Samuel Alfred Beadle

I care not for the miser's gold,
Nor increased acreage of lands;
My neighbor's goods I would not hold
Nor wring wealth from his clinched hands.
Oh no! My God! I would not have
My hands itching for his gold,
A higher boon my spirit craves
Of Thee. Let me communion hold
With these: the good, the great, the free;
Aye! let me scale the towering dome
Of thought, and feel, and know, and see
The highest dome bidding welcome
To my continued upward flight;
Oh, grant that I may stand amid
Men of thought, a man; banish night
From my clouded brow, and me rid
Of my mental infirmities.
Thou Deity of Deities!