Struggle.

 

Great strength is brought with pain, 
From out the strife, 
From out the storms that sweep 
The human soul^___ 
Those hidden tempests 
Of the inner life^___ 
Comes forth the lofty calm 
Of self-control. 
  
Peace after war. Although 
The heart may be trampled 
And plowed like a torn battle field, 
Rich are the fruits that follow victory, 
And the battle grounds 
The fullest harvests yield. 
  
Strong grows his arm who breasts 
A downward stream, 
And stems with steady stroke; 
The mighty tide 
Of his own passions. Sore 
The wrench may seem, 
But only he is strong 
Whose strength is tried. 
  
To toil is hard, to lay 
Aside the oar, 
To softly rise and fall 
With passion's swell, 
Is easier far. But when 
The dream is o'er 
The bitterness of waking 
None can tell. 
  
To float at ease, by sleepy 
Zephyrs fanned, 
Is but to grow more feeble 
Day by day; 
While slips life's little hour 
Out, sand by sand, 
And strength and hope together 
Waste away. 
  
He only wins who sets 
His thews of steele 
With tighter tensions for 
The prick of pain; 
Who wearies, yet stands fast; 
Whose patient zeal 
Welcomes the present loss 
For future gain. 
  
Toil before ease; the cross, 
Before the crown. 
Who covets rest, he first 
Must earn the boom. 
He who at night in peace 
Would lay him down, 
Must bear his load amid 
The heats of noon.

^__Ellen P. Allerton.