SOME minds are flaming rockets
That flit among the stars;
And some are gaily nickeled
And painted motor cars;
And some are lumbering wagons
That slowly make their way,
With nothing keen to offer
And nothing fine to say.
THE swiftly flaming rocket
Loses its brilliancy.
The fine car is supplanted
By one more fair to see.
But the slow-moving wagon
That lumbers down the road
Is certain of arrival
And bears the heavy load.