The seedling hidden in the sod
Were ill content immured to stay;
Slowly it upward makes its way
And finds the light at last, thank God!

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

These are my kindred of the clay:
But as I struggle from the ground
Such 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!