Sage, that would'st maker of thine own God be,
When made, alas! what will he profit thee?
Most like art thou to children that astride
On reeds or wooden horses proudly ride;
And as they trail them on the ground, they cry,
'This is the lightning, and its Lord am I?'
Yet, while they deem their horses them upbear,
Themselves the bearers of their horses are;
And when they grow aweary of their course,
They find no strength in them, no help, no force.
How otherwise they fare -- how fresh, how strong,
Not of themselves, but borne of God along!
How jubilant to him they lift their head,
Till the ninth heaven shakes underneath their tread!