If I did seem to you no more
Than to myself I seem,
Not thus you would fling wide the door,
And on the beggar beam!
You would not don your radiant best,
Or dole me more than half!
Poor palmer I, no angel guest;
A shaking reed my staff!
At home, no rich fruit, hanging low,
Have I for Love to pull;
Only unripe things that must grow
Till Autumn’s maund be full!
But I forsake my niggard leas,
My orchard, too late hoar,
And wander over lands and seas
To find the Father’s door.
When I have reached the ancestral farm,
Have clomb the steepy hill,
And round me rests the Father’s arm,
Then think me what you will.