Thou knowest, Who hast made the clay.
One stone the more swings to her place
In that dread temple of Thy Worth,
It is enough that through Thy grace
I saw naught common on Thy earth.
Take not that vision from my ken;
O, whatsoe'er may spoil or speed,
Help me to need no aid from men
That I may help such men as need.
—Rudyard Kipling.