I know, sometimes, that I expect too much
Of life. No man can quite escape the toil
He calls his heritage: those hours that spoil
The best of all his days, and leave their touch
On what is left him. No, the avid clutch
Of dark fatigue the worker best will foil
Who can himself wholeheartedly embroil
In some small blessing quite disguised as such.
So long as I, then, feel a pulse’s beat
At sight of autumn-tinted leaf, or thrill
Completely to a thrasher’s song, or meet
Some poet’s lofty thought, my soul is still
My own; and I shall call life worth the while
For just that inch of joy in every mile.
by Ray Romine Sunday, October 15, 1944
