Thou canst not help the thousand things
That might be better done;
Corruption its black shadow flings
On all beneath the sun;
Nor thought nor word nor deed can reach
The purity our yearnings preach.

Nothing is perfect; be content,--
Thank God it is no worse;
Creation pays a bitter rent
And sins beneath a curse;
Thank God for blessing still bestow'd,
And grace to lift guilt's crushing load.

Thou canst not work thy nobler will
Unvexed by sin and strife;
A mingled draught of good and ill
Is still the cup of life;
Take it and drink; for it is meet
Thy spirit quaff that bitter sweet.

Detraction like a scorpion stands
To strike at men and things;
The spider with her hideous hands
Clings to the skirts of kings;
Be sure thy cot shall not escape
The poison of that dreaded shape.

Slander shall mar thy purest work,
And spot thy fairest robe;
The cancer-roots of evil lurk
Throughout the groaning globe;
The thing well-done might better be;
And there are thousand faults in thee.