WE rail at fate which holds us bound
To duty’ s dull and narrow round,
To face as bravely as we may
The common cares of every day.
Our wandering wishes urge and fret,
But circumstance is mightier yet,
And curbs and checks the restless will,
And bids the impatient heart be still.
And while we vainly strive and chide,
Little by little, undescried,
The tiny roots of life take hold,
Anchoring their fibres in the mould.
The roots of habit, tough and long,
Of deathless love, than death more strong,
Of order measuring out the days,
And duty’ s sweet, recurrent ways,—
They bind us when we fain would fly,
They check and thwart till, by and by,
The narrow plot which they control
Becomes the home-ground of the soul;
And stormy, mutinous youth, grown wise,
Looks out and in, with older eyes,
And in his limitations sees
His helpers, not his hindrances.