THE MAKING OF MAN

by: John White Chadwick (1840-1904)

S 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.

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