In thee is all my art; from thee I draw
The substance of my dreams, the waking plan
Of practised thought; I can no measure scan,
But thou work’st in me like eternal law.

If I were rich in goodly title deeds
Of broad estate, won from posterity;
If from decaying Time I snatched a see
Richer than prelates pray for with their beads;

If some should bring before me frankincense,
And make a pleasant fire to greet mine eyes;
If there were given me for recompense

Gifts fairer than a seraph could devise:
I would, my sovereign, kneel to thee and say,
“It all is thine; thou showedst me the way.”