Have we not all, amid life’s pretty strife,
Some pure ideal of a noble life
That once seemed possible? Did we not hear
The flutter of its wings and feel it near
And just within our reach? It was And yet
We lost it in this daily jar and fret
But still our place is kept and it will wait,
Ready for us to fill it, soon or late.
No star is ever lost we once have seen:
We always may be what we might have been.
Adelaide A. Proctor