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.