If we could take the world and "shatter it to bits"
And "mold it nearer to the heart s desire,"
What would we make of it?—
If we go back and view the hill
Which once was mountain,
And see the tiny stream which once was river,
And roam the wind-rent scrub of oak,
Which then our forest was,
We'd know we cannot turn and take again the road we once were on,
Nor can we stay the moment as it comes.
Ahead we ever spy the further goal the heart would seek;
We still would mold this life to suit the heart's desire.
Ah no!
We soon would weary of the final thing we'd made
And wish again we might remold the broken bits.
We all must take the clay just as it comes
And build our lives as best we may,
Ever changing, ever molding to fit us as we grow.