For Greatness

As a man was raised but less than he,
For bitter soaked is ill litter thorn,
So bitter his life now comes to be,
And the seconds pass since then was born,

Whatever ere is sought beyond his reach
In thinner air every breath becomes a chore;
Himself the very bore he ought to teach,
Himself lone bare yond he ought be sore,

At the same time, he reads more to aspire,
And pages from which then he shall become
Throw no more than what his worth to respire.
As he laid down through the wreathes some Read More