Poems (Mary Coleridge)/Poem 175

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CLXXV PRAISE
Ah, who shall Praise receive And not profane her?Fool were I to believe, Churl to disdain her!
Praise is the kindly love Of all a nation,Lifting the man above His lower station.
Praise is a mortal hate; In blood, not money,He pays who takes the bait, Swallows the honey.
Imperial renown, How may I win thee?Praise me, and I shall own The strength of ten within me.
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Praise me, and I shall sink In shallow water;Folly upon the brink, Vanity's daughter!
Alone they safely trod The flowery mazesWho loved the praise of God More than man's praises.

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