By Mathilde Blind
Oh ye, all ye, who suffer here below,
Schooled in the baffling mystery of pain,
Who on life’s anvil bear the fateful strain,
Wrong as forged iron, hammered blow on blow.
Take counsel with your grief, in that you know,
That he who suffers suffers not in vain,
Nay, that it shall be for the whole world’s gain,
And wisdom prove the priceless price of woe.
Thus in some new-found land where no man’s feet
Have trod a path, bold voyagers astray,
May fall foredone by torturing thirst and heat:
But from the impotent body of defeat–
The winners spring who carve a conquering way–
Measured by milestones of their perished clay.
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