Trails

He leaves his silver trail behind,

But has no silver on his way;

His path is rough, and sometimes dark,

And troubles come by night and day:

Slowly he moves-this humble snail-

And never sees his silver trail.

So, men who give us golden lines

Have written them in blood and sweat;

Time never turns a thought to gold,

Unless a tear has made it wet:

They suffer-like these humble snails-

And never see their golden trails.