Tossed about like thistle-down, Buffeted by waves of chance, Knowing but a motley gown, Feet that never dance; Yet I have walked amid Scotch Broom In the early morn with the lark in tune! Always stayed by halting speech, Dumb when the heart o'erflowed, Groping for words just out of reach, Memories used as goad; Yet have I seen the desert spring From dull, sifting sands to a vivid thing! And though still a reverist With hands ineptly turned, Full well I know I'm ever blest By gifts so many've spurned; For a wise God weak arms has filled With the countless little things He has spilled! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE HASTY PUDDING by JOEL BARLOW WHOLE DUTY OF CHILDREN by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON A SPIRITUAL AND WELL-ORDERED MIND by HENRY ALFORD THE PHOENIX TO MRS. BUTTS by WILLIAM BLAKE THE WORLD'S RECORD by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE THERE HE GOES by BERTON BRALEY ODE TO THE SACRED LAMPS by M. L. R. BRESLAR THE WANDERER: 1. IN ITALY: CONDEMNED ONES by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |