David Atwood Wasson (1823–1887)

THAT regal soul I reverence, in whose eyes

Suffices not all worth the city knows

To pay that debt which his own heart he owes;

For less than level to his bosom rise

The low crowd’s heaven and stars: above their skies

Runneth the road his daily feet have pressed;

A loftier heaven he beareth in his breast,

And o’er the summits of achieving hies

With never a thought of merit or of meed;

Choosing divinest labors through a pride

Of soul, that holdeth appetite to feed

Ever on angel-herbage, nought beside;

Nor praises more himself for hero-deed

Than stones for weight, or open seas for tide.