THE CLOD AND THE PEBBLE

‘Love seeketh not itself to please, Nor for itself hath any care, But for another gives its ease, And builds a heaven in hell’s despair.’

So sung a little clod of clay, Trodden with the cattle’s feet, But a pebble of the brook Warbled out these metres meet:

‘Love seeketh only Self to please, To bind another to its delight, Joys in another’s loss of ease, And builds a hell in heaven’s despite.’