I do not long for power, nor lordly place;
I do not sigh for jewels, nor for minted gold;
I would not grieve if gifts of worldly grace,
If land or houses or a large career,
If luxury or plaudits men revere,
My days of earthly pilgrimage should never hold.
Yet, oh! within me wakes a craving deep
And confident, like woodland wings that skyward start
At dawn, the wish that I may find and keep
Uplifting thoughts along my lowly way.
Serenely heralding an inward spring—
God's dear forget-me-nots a-blooming in my heart.
Power and laureled fame are fitful fires
Soon spent; and worldly wealth an unavailing store,
Whose hoarding marks the loss of high desires.
The pride of station is a scentless rose,
Thorned with illusions, falling as it blows;
And learning, minus love, a stultifying lore.
Yet, oh! at heaven's gate on heavenly steeps
He stands, of never waning light a waxing part—
At heaven's gate he stands who finding, keeps
Unsullied, sweet, through all his earthly span,
Love and compassion for his fellow-man—
God's dear forget-me-nots a-blooming in his heart.
