Humility.
Ernest W. Shurtleff.
Sweet are the roses in the pasture lane,
Like flakes of sunset dropped from some rich cloud—
Oh, sweet, indeed, but not with sweetness vain;
Nor is the pasture of their presence proud.
Not for themselves they blossom, bud and nod—
They spring to breathe to man the peace of God.
I never heard a songster’s lay that told
Of aught but simple joy and grateful praise.
The oriole, with throat aflame with gold,
Dreams not he is a charm to mortal gaze;
No bird to laud himself hath ever sung—
His song is for the flowers he chirps among.
The sun that fills the skies with summer calms,
The stars that light unmeasured depths of space
Like distant suns that flash reflected charms,
When on the night Jehovah turns his face—
All these in humbleness their glory wear,
Grateful, not proud, because Heaven made them fair.
O vaunting man, go ponder on these things!
Think—what is glory in thy Makers view?
Who wins the passing praise the cold world sings
Not always earns the praise of Heaven too.
Thou mayst through life thy name with gods enroll,
Yet bear rebuke of angels in thy soul.
Oh, to be simple in the lives we lead!
To know that what we hold is not our own!
The lily is as modest as the weed,
The mountain humble as the broken stone.
Since man is proud, how wise it is, how just,
That death should come to teach us we are dust!