Why is the mire in the trodden street,
And the dark stream by the sewer borne,
Spurned from even under our feet,
Grudged by us e'en the look of scorn?
There is fresh grass in its gloom—
There are sweetness and bloom;
There is pulse for men to eat—
There are golden acres of wheat.
But so it is, and hath ever been:
The good of the future is e'er unseen.