ASPIRATION

None ever climbed to mountain heights of song,

But felt the touch of some good woman's palm;

None ever reached God's altitude of calm,

But heard one voice cry, “Follow!” from the throng.

I would not place her as an image high

Above my reach, cold, in some dim recess,

Where never she should feel a warm caress

Of this my hand that serves her till I die.

I would not set her higher than my heart,—

Though she is nobler than I e'er can be;

Because she placed me from the crowd apart,

And with her tenderness she honoured me.

Because of this, I hold me worthier

To be her kinsman, while I worship her.