The Making Of Man

As the insect from the rock
 Takes the color of its wing;
As the boulder from the shock
 Of the ocean's rhythmic swing
Makes itself a perfect form,
 Learns a calmer front to raise;
As the shell, enamelled warm
 With the prism's mystic rays,
Praises wind and wave that make
 All its chambers fair and strong;
As the mighty poets take
 Grief and pain to build their song:
Even so for every soul,
 Whatsoe'er its lot may be,—
Building, as the heavens roll,
 Something large and strong and free,—
Things that hurt and things that mar
 Shape the man for perfect praise;
Shock and strain and ruin are
 Friendlier than the smiling days.