The many sow, but only the chosen reap; <br />Happy the wretched host if Day be brief, <br />That with the cool oblivion of sleep <br />A dawnless Night may soothe the smart of grief. <br /> <br />If from the soil our sweat enriches sprout <br />One meagre blossom for our hands to cull, <br />Accustomed indigence provokes a shout <br />Of praise that life becomes so bountiful. <br /> <br />Now ushered regally into your own, <br />Look where you will, as far as eye can see, <br />Your little seeds are to a fullness grown, <br />And golden fruit is ripe on every tree. <br /> <br />Yours is no fairy gift, no heritage <br />Without travail, to which weak wills aspire; <br />This is a merited and grief-earned wage <br />From One Who holds His servants worth their hire. <br /> <br />So has the shyest of your dreams come true, <br />Built not of sand, but of the solid rock, <br />Impregnable to all that may accrue <br />Of elemental rage: storm, stress, and shock.<br /><br />Countee Cullen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lines-to-my-father/
