GROWTH
Blow, winds, your rage but shakes the tree
And roots it surer in its place!
Scatter your rain, ye clouds, and free
The buds that wait your frowning grace!
Roll down, O river, to the sea,
And widen in your onward race!
Peace through a sunny span may keep
His garden in some quiet glen,
Whilst others sow for him, and reap,
And tend his flocks on moor and fen:
The flowers of Peace are death and sleep;
The strife of living makes us men.
Ah, joy it is to win the goal
By tireless work and dauntless will,
Yet may the life rise orbed and whole
From clouded hopes, and loss, and ill:
Our baffled toils upbuild the soul,
And failure so is victory still.