A Poem

For every hill I had to climb,

For every stone that bruised my feet,

For all the blood and

sweat and grime,

For blinding storms and

burning heat,

My heart sings but a grateful song-

Those were the things

that made me strong.

For all the heartaches and the tears,

For all the anguish and the pain.

For the gloomy days and fruitless years

And for the hopes that lived in vain;

I do give thanks, for now I know,

These were the things

that helped me grow.

'Tis not the softer things of life

Which stimulate our will to strive,

But bleak adversity and strife

Do most to keep our will alive.

Over rose-strewn paths

the weaklings creep,

But brave hearts dare

to climb the steep.

-Author Unknown