THEY called me the weakling, the simpleton, For my brothers were strong and beautiful, While I, the last child of parents who had aged, Inherited only their residue of power. But they, my brothers, were eaten up In the fury of the flesh, which I had not, Made pulp in the activity of the senses, which I had not, Hardened by the growth of the lusts, which I had not, Though making names and riches for themselves. Then I, the weak one, the simpleton, Resting in a little corner of life, Saw a vision, and through me many saw the vision, Not knowing it was through me. Thus a tree sprang From me, a mustard seed. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...OUT OF THE OLD HOUSE, NANCY by WILLIAM MCKENDREE CARLETON COLUMBUS by EDWARD EVERETT HALE SONGS WITH PRELUDES: REGRET by JEAN INGELOW ESCAPE AT BEDTIME by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON THE MAY QUEEN by ALFRED TENNYSON COCK-CROW by PHILIP EDWARD THOMAS A PRETTY WOMAN by ROBERT BROWNING THE WANDERER: 4. IN SWITZERLAND: A QUIET MOMEMENT by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |