The poem
I THINK we are too ready with complaint In this fair world of God's. Had we no hope Indeed beyond the zenith and the slope Of yon gray blank of sky, we might grow faint To muse upon eternity's constraint Round our aspirant souls; but since the scope Must widen early, is it well to droop, For a few days consumed in loss and taint ? O pusillanimous Heart, be comforted And, like a cheerful traveller, take the road Singing beside the hedge. What if the bread Be bitter in thine inn, and thou unshod To meet the flints ? At least it may be said ' Because the way is short, I thank thee, God. '