The Making of Man
As the insect from the rock
Takes the color of its wing;
As the boulder from the shock
Of the ocean’s rhythmic swing
Makes itself a perfect form,
Learns a calmer front to raise;
As the shell, enamelled warm
With the prism’s mystic rays,
Praises wind and wave that make
All its chambers fair and strong;
As the mighty poets take
Grief and pain to build their song:
Even so for every soul,
Whatsoe’er its lot may be,—
Building, as the heavens roll,
Something large and strong and free,
Things that hurt and things that mar
Shape the man for perfect praise;
Shock and strain and ruin are
Friendlier than the smiling days.