A Child of the People :: :: University of Virginia Library

Of climbing purpose, clogged with feet fall'n lame,
And singing soul sour-throated, God alone
Can gauge the greatness. Bruisèd spice storm-blown
Pleaseth Him more than all fair-weather flame
Of frankincense. He doth not praise or blame
Results, or blazoned moods the world is shown;
But by the inner spirit's undertone
Judgeth the act,—the arrow by the aim.

So I sing on, although my May-day rhyme
Noon-born, die ere the even: God from me
No thunder-throated battle-psalm sublime
Demandeth, but a song in my degree.
Discords! He hath not heard one any time;—
They are His concords in a minor key!

“Crown Failure here, the frequent feast-day leaves
No wreaths men's brows to bind!
We mark the first for honour; God perceives
The place of each behind.
See, too, for fairest deeds men's lavish praise,
Ere the dew dries, is spent!
He will not grudge us everlasting bays
To crown a crossed intent.”