From the Evening Star, November 2, 1913. By S. E. Kiser.
I used to fret because I thought
My chances were so few;
It seemed to me that there was not
Much left for me to do;
The splendid things had all been done—
At least I thought they had—
I craved a chance, and finding none,
Considered matters bad.
I used to list myself with those
Who had been born too late;
I had no reason to suppose
I might be rich or great;
No chance at all remained for me—
At least, it seemed so then—
To win renown or worthily
Rise o’er my fellow men.
The great things had been done before
I came upon the scene;
There was no chance for me to score,
My fate was poor and mean;
I often hopelessly complained
As I reviewed the case,
Because no chance for me remained
To serve the human race.
And now, as I look back I find
Myself despondent still;
I am distressed in heart and mind,
I claim no happy thrill;
Condemned to shiver in the cold,
I cannot now resist
Sad memories as I behold
The chances I have missed.