We have but faith; we cannot know;
For knowledge is of things we see;
And yet we trust it comes from thee,
A beam of darkness: let it grow.
Let knowledge grow from more to more,
But more of reverence in us dwell;
That mind and soul, according well,
May make one music as before,
But vaster. We are fools and slight;
We mock thee when we do not fear;
But help thy foolish ones to bear;
Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light.
Forgive what seemed my sin in me;
What seem'd my worth since I began;
For merit lies from man to man,
And not from man, O Lord, to thee.
—Tennyson.
THE WORLD OVER
In vain we call old notions fudge,
And bend our conscience to our dealing;
The Ten Commandments will not budge,
And stealing will continue stealing.
—Lowell.
IT'S RAINING VIOLETS
It is not raining rain to me,
It's raining daffodils;
In every dimpled drop I see
Wild flowers on the hills.
The clouds of gray engulf the day,
And overwhelm the town;
It is not raining rain to me,
It's raining roses down.
It is not raining rain to me,
But fields of clover bloom,
Where any bucanneering bee
May find a bed and room.