A man is not what oft he seems,
On this terrestrial sphere,
No pow’r to wield, no honor’d place,
Oft curb his spirit here.
He knows not what within him lies,
Until his pow’rs be tried,
And when for them some use is found,
They spring from where they hide,
To startle and to puzzle him,
Who never knew their force,
Because his unfreed spirit kept
A low and shackl’d course.
Dishearten’d and despairing, he
Had often sigh’d alone,
Not thinking that in other ways
His spirit might have grown.
Not thinking that another course,
Which needed pluck and vim,
Might raise his drowning spirit high,
And teach it how to swim;
To battle with the rolling tide,
That hurries onward men,
And raise his head above the waves,
That come and go again.
by THOMAS FREDERICK YOUNG (1892-1940)
Public Domain Poetry
unbolt me 