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AB HUMO
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!
