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James Russell Lowell - A Parable
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Worn and footsore was the Prophet,
  When he gained the holy hill;
`God has left the earth,` he murmured,
`Here his presence lingers still.

`God of all the olden prophets,
  Wilt thou speak with men no more?
Have I not as truly served thee
  As thy chosen ones of yore?

`Hear me, guider of my fathers,
  Lo! a humble heart is mine;
By thy mercy I beseech thee
  Grant thy servant but a sign!`

Bowing then his head, he listened
  For an answer to his prayer;
No loud burst of thunder followed,
  Not a murmur stirred the air:

But the tuft of moss before him
  Opened while he waited yet,
And, from out the rock`s hard bosom,
  Sprang a tender violet.

`God! I thank thee,` said the Prophet;
  `Hard of heart and blind was I,
Looking to the holy mountain
  For the gift of prophecy.

`Still thou speakest with thy children
  Freely as in eld sublime;
Humbleness, and love, and patience,
  Still give empire over time.

`Had I trusted in my nature,
  And had faith in lowly things,
Thou thyself wouldst then have sought me.
  And set free my spirit`s wings.

`But I looked for signs and wonders,
  That o`er men should give me sway;
Thirsting to be more than mortal,
  I was even less than clay.

`Ere I entered on my journey,
  As I girt my loins to start,
Ran to me my little daughter,
  The beloved of my heart;

`In her hand she held a flower,
  Like to this as like may be,
Which, beside my very threshold,
  She had plucked and brought to me.`
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