The simple goatherd who treads places high,
Beholding there his shadow (it is wist)
Dilated to a giant's on the mist,
Esteems not his own stature larger by
The apparent image; but more patiently
Strikes his staff down beneath his clenching fist--
While the snow-mountains lift their amethyst
And sapphire crowns of splendour, far and nigh,
Into the air around him. Learn from hence
Meek morals, all ye poets that pursue
Your way still onward up to eminence!
Ye are not great, because creation drew
Large revelations round your earliest sense,
Nor bright, because God's glory shines for you.