Soul-sick am I, O God, of little things Small pleasures, aspirations, creeds, desires; Low valleys, slender brooks and hearthside fires. I want the sweep of wide, triumphant wings; The halleluiah that the ocean sings; The wind that roars like beasts and never tires! Great God, my soul aches to the mighty lgres Of Nature To men heritaged as kings Who dare, aspire, achieve, not counting cost, So that a deed be done that reaches far A new land won; a perilous water crossed; So that a man coming to his last rest Shall wear upon his brow the splendid star That leads the glorious empire — builders West!