Now, by the verdure on thy thousand hills, Beloved England, doth the earth appear Quite good 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.
Return to the Elizabeth Barrett Browning library , or . . . Read the next poem; A Man's Requirements