  We do not cut and polish the stones That are laid in the common wall; We do not prune the brambles and weeds That around our pathway fall. We do not put into crucibles A metal unworthy the test; Nor do we send a man to the front Who would not peril his best. The vine that’s pruned bears the choicest fruit,— Necessity grinds the dull tool; And the keenest and best instructors Are prepared in Affliction’s school. Suffering gives us the richest thoughts That to literature can belong;— In poetry it strikes the sweetest note And inspires the tenderest song. Our troubles are but the inlets small That shall lead to the human soul, Thro’ which the Comforter comes to heal And to strengthen us for the Goal. The rarest of saints are afflicted By One who doth know what is right; And the stars shall ever shine brightest That contend with the darkest night. |
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