  T The stately trees that in the forest grow Are not all destined for the same high thing; Some burn to useless cinders in the glow Of the hearth-fire; while some are meant to sing For centuries the never-dying song Once caught from wandering breeze or lingering bird So clearly and so surely, that the strong Firm wood was quickly seized by one who heard, To fashion his dear violin;—even so Our human souls are fashioned; some will fade Away to useless ashes, others grow |
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