Not by fine straining above our natural powers,
Or standing tiptoe over greater heads,
Do we beget that greatness nature weds
To her sure actions and her patient hours.
Nor yet by building arrogant Babel towers,
And aping genius, do we spin those threads
Of grave existence, which the world besteads
When fortune fails and life's horizon lowers.

Not thus doth Nature tread her patient rounds
In gloom of darkness or in wine of light,
Flaming the wheel of her slow fixèd bounds,
Revivifying day in womb of night:
Plodding her dream in mists of mightiest powers,
Working her miracles in her natural hours.