Short Flights by Meredith Nicholson - HTML preview

STRIVING.

IT is not much that I can do.

My hands are weak.

The lines they draw seem never true;

The works I speak

Are not the ones I long to say,—

I speak not prayers I long to pray.

It is no coward spirit, no—

I try to learn

How others bravely strive and go

Rewards to earn,

And yet success is never mine—

I labor on a false design.

They are not much, these little things

That form my task,

Yet constant seeking never brings

What I would ask,

And of what use is life to one

Who never knew a victory won?

But this one thing I know, that He

Who guides the stars

Will look in charity on me

And see the scars

Which show that I have tried to trace

A path that weeds could not efface.