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 | The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill |  |
If the man riding yonder looks a speck,
The town an ant-hill, that is but the trick
Of our perspective: wisdom merely means
Correction of the angles at the eye.
I hold my hand up, so, before my face,—
It blots ten miles of country, and a town.
This little lying lens, that twists the rays,
So cheats the brain that My house, My affairs,
My hunger, or My happiness, My ache,
And My religion, fill immensity!
Yours merely dot the landscape casually.
'T is well God does not measure a man's worth
By the image on his neighbor's retina.
The town an ant-hill, that is but the trick
Of our perspective: wisdom merely means
Correction of the angles at the eye.
I hold my hand up, so, before my face,—
It blots ten miles of country, and a town.
This little lying lens, that twists the rays,
So cheats the brain that My house, My affairs,
My hunger, or My happiness, My ache,
And My religion, fill immensity!
98
'T is well God does not measure a man's worth
By the image on his neighbor's retina.
| The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill | |