Classic Poem

O weary son of sorrow great!
How apt art thou to bow and grieve,
And count all things thy solemn fate,
As if thou canst not self retrieve!

May I not tell the story true
Of that Eternal Force that is —
The Force that makes the world and you;
The Force that rules and ever lives?

Thou art the living force in part,
The Spirit of the Mighty I;
The God of Heaven and your heart
Is Spirit that can never die.

You're what you are in heart and mind,
Because you will it so to be;
The man who tries himself to find,
Is light to all, and great is he.

In each and every one is God,
In everything atomic life;
There is no death beneath the sod,
This fact, not knowing, brings the strife.