Many a grand ambition
Had birth and died in a day,
From lack of vigorous nursing
To keep it from decay.

Many a hope has faded
And sunk in deepest despair,
Through lack of careful pruning
That fruitage it might bear.

Many a mind is ruined
And becomes chaotic mass,
Through want of systematic
Training in the class.

Many a song of sweetness
Has lost its harmony,
Because at its beginning
It had not the proper key.

Many a field most fertile
Bears vile and noxious weeds,
Through failure of the tiller
To sow some worthy seeds.

Many a flower of beauty
And sweetness blooms unseen,
And dies in its seclusion
On a bed of mossy green.

Better to have no talent,
No excellence to give,
Than permit vice to destroy
The talent we may have.

No dam can restrain the water
When leaks receive no care,
When the tempest in wild fury
Doth chafe and gnaw and tear,
And no hand is raised to succor,
No effort to repair,
Till the torrent bursts in fury
And fills us with despair.
'Tis too late then for repining,
Too late, for work or prayer.