Glories.
Not for Voices, Harps or Wings or rapt illumination,
But the grosser Self that springs of use and occupation,
Unto which the Spirit clings as her last salvation.
Powers, Glories, Toils, and Gifts.
(He Who launched our Ship of Fools many anchors gave us,
Lest one gale should start them all—one collision stave us.
Praise Him for the petty creeds
That prescribe in paltry needs,
Solemn rites to trivial deeds and, by small things, save us!)