Adequacy

Now by the verdure on thy thousand hills,

Beloved England,—doth the earth appear

Quite noble enough for men to overbear

The will of God in, with rebellious wills!

We cannot say the morning-sun fulfils

Ingloriously its course; nor that the clear

Strong stars, without significance, insphere

Our habitation. We, meantime, our ills,

Heap up against this good; and lift a cry

Against this work-day world, this ill-spread feast,

As if ourselves were better certainly

Than what we come to. Maker and High Priest,

I ask Thee not my joys to multiply,—

Only to make me worthier of the least.