Tread Softly Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

Rhyme Scheme: ABCBDEFE GEHEIJEJ KALALMNM AELEEOGO AEEEPQEQ RSESTUVU EWAWEEGE AEXEESAS

In the courts of truth tread softlyA
Though your tread be firm and boldB
Your steps may awaken echoesC
Resounding through years untoldB
The trend of the age is onwardD
And you should not lag behindE
If men's minds are bound with fettersF
Perchance you may some unbindE
-
Our creed say you needs revisingG
In line with the growth of lightE
Be sure you have made real progressH
Before you assume the rightE
By stroke of pen to unsettleI
The faith of the long agoJ
For many who err in judgmentE
Stand fast to the truth they knowJ
-
You bring from the mine rare jewelsK
That you think the world should seeA
But perhaps their estimationL
With your own may not agreeA
They may lack discriminationL
And their worth may not discernM
So polish them at your leisureN
And give the world time to learnM
-
Before you dig up the old treeA
That sheltered in ages pastE
The earth's noblest men and womenL
From the fury of the blastE
See that your sapling is rootedE
And no borer at its baseO
And its boughs both strong and spreadingG
To cover an erring raceO
-
Bear down on the lever gentlyA
Or the rock may be o'erturnedE
Or perchance your lever shatteredE
And little experience learnedE
Take time to adjust your fulcrumP
Then thrust home your iron barQ
Bear down and the rock is liftedE
Is lifted without a jarQ
-
Your views are perhaps exoticR
Young shoots from a tropic brainS
They need to be better rootedE
To endure the wind and rainS
You may well admire the markingsT
On each graceful stem and leafU
But if taken from the hot houseV
They will surely come to griefU
-
Before they have wholly perishedE
They may please admiring eyesW
The old be thrown on the dunghillA
To receive your floral prizeW
They adorn the porch and windowE
And brighten the wayside bedE
But we waken some summer morningG
To find our new treasures deadE
-
'Tis better to make haste slowlyA
Than to antedate your dayE
The farmer waits for the sunshineX
To transmute the grass to hayE
When the fields are ripe for harvestE
Fear neither the heat or rainS
But thrust in your sharpened sickleA
And gather the golden grainS

Joseph Horatio Chant



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