I looked at Pity stumbling up a hill;
I saw Admiration, who strode with a will.
For Pity, no poem came, words were half born;
For Admiration—singing in the glorious morn.
Then Pity was painting, canvas a mess;
Then Admiration brushed in a face of happiness.
Old Pity could do nothing, nothing quite right,
But Admiration gave me inspiring light.
Pity has no child, he couldn’t keep wife;
Admiration’s smiling for joy of his life.
I love you, Admiration, and you will live long,
Your spirit and story the gift of my song.