My heart shall not reproach me while I live!”
Humility’s a grace at thirty-nine,
But scarce a virtue in the very young,
Who bend to us from fear, not reverence.
Nor truly humble is the violet
That keeps its face quite upturned to the sun
And would grow higher if it could; it cannot.
Better for our young friend the haughtiness
Of strong white lilies that refuse to bloom
Near the dark earth they rose from; eagerly