It is human nature maybe to be borne ’long with the crowd,

And when they shout and hollo, to hollo just as loud;

But there’s a sight o’ pleasure like a draught from nectar’s cup,

In just a-loitering back along with those who can’t keep up.

One needn’t think the only men God ever made are those

Who wear the finest linen and the latest cut in clothes,—

I find patriotism, honor, and fidelity to truth,

In the man whose outward bearing often is the most uncouth.

In the weather-beaten cottage where the eaves ’most touch the door,

Whose shingles are quite hidden with the moss that’s gathered o’er,

There is still the old-time altar, where duly morn and night,

The gentlest words are spoken when the heart is sad with woe,

And the rarest wisdom emanates from those whose steps are slow,

And those whose eyes are blind to sights that glisten for a day,

See glories far transcendent that can never fade away.

So I like to loiter back a bit; the crowd may surge along.

Perhaps for some it’s pleasant thus to jostle with the throng;

But I find my life grows richer, even drinking sorrow’s cup,

With the weary and unfortunate who cannot quite keep up!