Success: A Poem

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Success

There's a dazzling city they call Success, And it stands in the sun's red glare, Where the pilgrims of effort by strange ways press To a stand on the proud heights there, And no one may falter and nobody waits, For the speedway of fame is the lure of its gates. I Come ride to its splendor in purple array, 'Mid pageantry trophied and strong, With courtiers paving and strewing the way, The whole of the journey along, Who, standing aloof in the luxurious time, Would tell us the summit is easy to climb!

Some long for its shelter, but stand back and weep In the midst of the wearying throng, Who sigh that the peaks are too dizzy and steep And the way of the journey too long, Who yearn for the blossoming gardens of pow'r, But weary of seeking their height in an hour.

Some dash on their way to the City of Fame, Who smilingly boast as they go | That no pinnacle there is too lofty an aim For the arrow their wielding can throw, Who soar for a plaudit and fling for a cost, And lo! in the caverns the arrow is lost!

Some plod through the steeps, though the even descend Who, harrowed of gust and of gale, § Toil patiently on till life frays to its end, And we say of their works, "They have failed." Frail judges, we mortals, who measure and guess At the souls that shall enter the World of Success! Bertha A. Kleinman. Mesa, Arizona f

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