Sonnet
Ye praise the humble: of the meek ye say,
“Happy they live among their lowly bowers;
The mountains, and the mountain-storms are ours.”
Thus, self-deceivers, filled with pride always
Reluctant homage to the good ye pay,
Mingled with scorn like poison sucked from flowers—
Revere the humble; godlike are their powers:
No mendicants for praise of men are they.
The child who prays in faith “Thy will be done”
Is blended with that Will Supreme which moves
A wilderness of worlds by Thought untrod;
He shares the starry sceptre, and the throne:
The man who as himself his neighbour loves
Looks down on all things with the eyes of God!
“Happy they live among their lowly bowers;
The mountains, and the mountain-storms are ours.”
Thus, self-deceivers, filled with pride always
Reluctant homage to the good ye pay,
Mingled with scorn like poison sucked from flowers—
Revere the humble; godlike are their powers:
No mendicants for praise of men are they.
The child who prays in faith “Thy will be done”
Is blended with that Will Supreme which moves
A wilderness of worlds by Thought untrod;
He shares the starry sceptre, and the throne:
The man who as himself his neighbour loves
Looks down on all things with the eyes of God!
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