I am not—or I hope not—a lover of praise;
I am humble—I hope so at least.
It will do me no harm—on occasional days—
Such a rich popularity-feast.
For perhaps I am great, and I think I am good,
And it’s surely a mark of submission
To take, though a statesman, to chopping of wood,
And abandon the paths of ambition.
[He strikes a few more blows with his axe; then again pauses. The cheering is renewed.]
How simple I look! how unconsciously grand,