We have not wings, we cannot soar;
But we have feet to scale and climb
By slow degrees, by more and more,
The cloudy summits of our time
The mighty pyramids of stone
That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,
When nearer seen, and better known,
Are but gigantic flights of stairs.
The distant mountains, that uprear
Their solid bastions to the skies,
Are crossed by pathways, that appear
As we to higher levels rise.
The heights by great men reached and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight,
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night.
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Hello and good morning,
I woke up with the fourth stanza of this poem ringing in my ears. We were taught this poem at my primary school in Dominica. I am working on some new projects, which I hope to share with you soon.Thank you for the support thus far. I think appreciation for the arts gets better with time. I have been fortunate to have been exposed to the masters of literature from very early on.