Classic Poem

As the mind of man grows broader, so do his creeds;
And his gods they are shaped in his image and mirror his needs;
And he clothes them with thunders and beauty, he clothes them with music and fire;
Seeing not as he bows by their altars that he worships his own desires.
And mixed with his trust there is terror, and mixed with his madness is ruth,
And every man grovels in error, and every man glimpses a truth.
For all of the creeds are false, and all of the creeds are true;
And low at the shrines where my brothers bow, there will I bow, too;
For no form of a god, and no fashion
Man has made in his desperate passion,
But is worthy some worship of mine; —
Neither hot with a gross belief,
Nor yet too cold with pride,
I will bow me down where my brothers bow,
Humble — but open-eyed!