Ab Humo

THE seedling hidden in the sodWere ill content immured to stay;Slowly it upward makes its wayAnd finds the light at last, thank God!

The most despised of mortal things—The worm devoid of hope or bliss,Discovers in the chrysalisToo narrow space for urgent wings.

These are my kindred of the clay;But as I struggle from the groundSuch weakness in my strength is found,I seem less fortunate than they;

Yet though my progress be but slow,And failure oft obscure the past,I, too, victorious at last,Shall reach the longed-for light, I know!