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.
(Elizabeth Barrett Browning)
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Based on Topics: God Poems, World Poems, Cry Poems, England PoemsBased on Keywords: heap, men, appear, doth, certainly, lift, priest, beloved, ills, joys, feast