The Making of Man

John White Chadwick (1840–1904)

AS the insect from the rock

Takes the color of its wing;

As the boulder from the shock

Of the ocean’s rhythmic swing

Makes itself a perfect form,

Learns a calmer front to raise;

As the shell, enamelled warm

With the prism’s mystic rays,

Praises wind and wave that make

All its chambers fair and strong;

As the mighty poets take

Grief and pain to build their song:

Even so for every soul,

Whatsoe’er its lot may be,—

Building, as the heavens roll,

Something large and strong and free,—

Things that hurt and things that mar

Shape the man for perfect praise;

Shock and strain and ruin are

Friendlier than the smiling days.