The threads our hands in blindness spin <br />No self-determined plan weaves in; <br />The shuttle of the unseen powers <br />Works out a pattern not as ours. <br /> <br />Ah! small the choice of him who sings <br />What sound shall leave the smitten strings; <br />Fate holds and guides the hand of art; <br />The singer's is the servant's part. <br /> <br />The wind-harp chooses not the tone <br />That through its trembling threads is blown; <br />The patient organ cannot guess <br />What hand its passive keys shall press. <br /> <br />Through wish, resolve, and act, our will <br />Is moved by undreamed forces still; <br />And no man measures in advance <br />His strength with untried circumstance. <br /> <br />As streams take hue from shade and sun, <br />As runs the life the song must run; <br />But, glad or sad, to His good end <br />God grant the varying notes may tend!<br /><br />John Greenleaf Whittier<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/overruled/
