Sharp thorns and brambles oft impede

Our progress as we go our way;

But, drawing garments close, we slip

As quickly by them as we may—

Perhaps among the thorns to spy

A fragrant bud or blossom start,

That hides the brambles for a time,

And helps us to forget their smart.

Upon the hill of high ideals,

The rocks are smooth and thickly set;

They give no foothold in themselves,

And wrench the feet that slip and fret:

But when we view the scene below,

And breathe the summit’s purer air,

The upward struggle we forget,

With rocky road that led us there.

Perhaps the gateway to success

Is hung upon a rusty hinge,

That opens not, though long we strive

With tug and pull and painful twinge:

Yet, spite of groan and piercing creak,

Sweet triumph will our souls imbue,

If effort swings the gate at last

Enough to let us struggle through.

The sunbeam-lighted lane that threads

The summer of prosperity,

Oft ends in drifts impassable,

And winter’s cold adversity:

But Spring-breath melts the deepest snow,

And frost and cold with drifts depart;

So trials dwindle in the warmth

Of courage in a strong, true heart.