Suddenly, I was but a leaf in the tumultuous strife
Of the indistinct but seemingly inevitable forest of life;
I was readily slapped but never clapped; often the subject of despise.
Troubles, if any (actually many) were at me in franchise.
Every fabric seemed to be my kibosh,
My battle, my fervor, deemed socially as merely bosh.
All but me were prodigally talented;
I, for one, was lost in the wastelands of unheard diligence, cruelly fermented.
I was paralyzed, hurt, barely motile;
My life was full of crevices. All but fertile.
Hither and thither, I could find my nemeses,
Truculently devoted only to ruin my convalescent bases.
The only thing I could do was drift along,
Towards victory or tyranny — only time will tell — but till the last furlong.
I can never hope to be great, be on the glory-reef;
For I was, after all, but a leaf.
But I can hope — for all I can hope to be,
Was not to become a “fruit”; oh, no! How preposterously silly me!
But to make the people of civilization, however indifferent, say,
“Ah, he’s only a leaf; but what a great one — a great one is he at bay!”
