Lord, I have loved your sky, Be it said against or for me, Have loved it clear and high, Or low and stormy; Till I have reeled and stumbled From looking up too much, And fallen and been humbled To wear a crutch. My love for every Heaven O'er which you, Lord, have lorded, From number One to Seven Should be rewarded. I should not dare to hope That when I am translated My scalp will in the cope Be constellated. But if that seems to tend To my undue renown, At least you ought to send Me up, not down. |