In thee is all my art; from thee I draw The substance of my dreams, the waking plan Of practised thought; I can no measure scan, But thou work’st in me like eternal law.
If I were rich in goodly title deeds Of broad estate, won from posterity; If from decaying Time I snatched a see Richer than prelates pray for with their beads;
If some should bring before me frankincense, And make a pleasant fire to greet mine eyes; If there were given me for recompense
Gifts fairer than a seraph could devise: I would, my sovereign, kneel to thee and say, “It all is thine; thou showedst me the way.”