[Written for the Sentinel.]

Growth

Do you suppose the tiny, struggling sprout In some bleak spot, some barren, stony waste, Knows inward joy that it gains, day by day, A greener color from the sun's warm ray, Feels gratitude that it makes better haste, Measuring increase by some mark about?

It seems of kindred since I broke the clay— Burst the poor, sterile soil of senseless lies, Drawn by the warmth of Soul to add in height And color, as I grow toward the light, Until my view is widened to where rise Comrades who signal to me on the way.

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Concord's Relief Fund
April 28, 1906
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