None ever climbed to mountain heights of song,
But felt the touch of some good woman’s palm;
None ever reached God’s altitude of calm,
But heard one voice cry, “Follow!” from the throng.

I would not place her as an image high
Above my reach, cold, in some dim recess,
Where never she should feel a warm caress
Of this my hand that serves her till I die.

I would not set her higher than my heart,—
Though she is nobler than I e’er can be;
Because she placed me from the crowd apart,

And with her tenderness she honoured me.
Because of this, I hold me worthier
To be her kinsman, while I worship her.