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Francis Thompson - All Flesh
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  I do not need the skies`
  Pomp, when I would be wise;
  For pleasaunce nor to use
  Heaven`s champaign when I muse.
  One grass-blade in its veins
  Wisdom`s whole flood contains;
  Thereon my foundering mind
  Odyssean fate can find.

  O little blade, now vaunt
  Thee, and be arrogant!
  Tell the proud sun that he
  Sweated in shaping thee;
  Night, that she did unvest
  Her mooned and argent breast
  To suckle thee.  Heaven fain

  Yearned over thee in rain,
  And with wide parent wing
  Shadowed thee, nested thing,
  Fed thee, and slaved for thy
  Impotent tyranny.
  Nature`s broad thews bent
  Meek for thy content.
  Mastering littleness
  Which the wise heavens confess,
  The frailty which doth draw
  Magnipotence to its law--
  These were, O happy one, these
  Thy laughing puissances!

  Be confident of thought,
  Seeing that thou art naught;
  And be thy pride thou`rt all
  Delectably safe and small.
  Epitomized in thee
  Was the mystery
  Which shakes the spheres conjoint--
  God focussed to a point.

  All thy fine mouths shout
  Scorn upon dull-eyed doubt.
  Impenetrable fool
  Is he thou canst not school
  To the humility
  By which the angels see!
  Unfathomably framed
  Sister, I am not shamed

  Before the cherubin
  To vaunt my flesh thy kin.
  My one hand thine, and one
  Imprisoned in God`s own,
  I am as God; alas,
  And such a god of grass!
  A little root clay-caught,
  A wind, a flame, a thought,
  Inestimably naught!
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