They called me the weakling, the simpleton, <br />For my brothers were strong and beautiful, <br />While I, the last child of parents who had aged, <br />Inherited only their residue of power. <br />But they, my brothers, were eaten up <br />In the fury of the flesh, which I had not, <br />Made pulp in the activity of the senses, which I had not, <br />Hardened by the growth of the lusts, which I had not, <br />Though making names and riches for themselves. <br />Then I, the weak one, the simpleton, <br />Resting in a little corner of life, <br />Saw a vision, and through me many saw the vision, <br />Not knowing it was through me. <br />Thus a tree sprang <br />From me, a mustard seed.<br /><br />Edgar Lee Masters<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/willie-pennington/
