O Poverty, the mother of all arts,
No dreamer of vain visions is the son
Nurtured by thee! Only the duty done
Thou dost accept; bidding him in the marts
To stand and strive among the foremost. Hearts
Grow strong by striving. Laurels are not won
Save by long steady effort. Who would run
Must bate no jot the pace wherewith he starts.
Madonna Mia, holy Poverty!
I lift for kisses lips that late reviled.
Nor will I flout thee more, (Forgive thy child!)
But hand in hand walk with thee to the end,
However bleak the path thou leadest me.
Stern tasker, harshest teacher, truest friend.
