We do not cut and polish the stones
That are laid in the common wall;
We do not prune the brambles and weeds
That around our pathway fall.
We do not put into crucibles
A metal unworthy the test;
Nor do we send a man to the front
Who would not peril his best.
The vine that’s pruned bears the choicest fruit,—
Necessity grinds the dull tool;
And the keenest and best instructors
Are prepared in Affliction’s school.
Suffering gives us the richest thoughts
That to literature can belong;—
In poetry it strikes the sweetest note
And inspires the tenderest song.
Our troubles are but the inlets small
That shall lead to the human soul,
Thro’ which the Comforter comes to heal
And to strengthen us for the Goal.
The rarest of saints are afflicted
By One who doth know what is right;
And the stars shall ever shine brightest
That contend with the darkest night.