To A Bigot

You strove in vain, with cunning words, And subtle arguments, to gain A convert to your darling creed; Then mocked me with your cold disdain. Ah, well — sip from your shallow fount; The heart hath depths you may not know; And your philosophy would fail, Did you but judge of Nature so. You do not scorn the mountain stream Because it floweth wild and free In hidden channels of its own. And finds at last its home, the sea. You do not crush the wayside flower Because it wears a different hue From that which decks your garden-walks, And only breathes its sweets for you. You do not wound the forest bird Because your caged canary sings A sweeter song — you vainly think — Give me the freedom of my wings. Then if I soar beyond your flights, Or if I keep my lowly nest, What matter, since I am content To serve my God as seemeth best?