On the lowest round of the ladder
I silently set my feet,
And looked into the dim, high distance
That made my future sweet.
I climbed till my vision grew weary,
I climbed till my brain was on fire,
I mounted with caution and wisdom―
Yet I never seemed to get higher.
For this round was glazed with indifference,
And that round was gilded with scorn,
And when I grasped firmly another
I found under velvet a thorn.
Till my brain grew weary of planning,
And my heart-strength began to fail,
And the flush of the morning’s excitement
Ere evening commenced to pale.
But just as my hands were unclasping
Their hold on the last gained round,
And my hopes, coming back from the future,
Were sinking again to the ground,
One, close to the top of the ladder,
Reached downward a helping hand,
And refreshed, encouraged and strengthened,
I took once again my stand.
And I wish―oh, I wish―that the climbers
Would never forget as they go
That, though weary may seem their climbing,
There is always some one below.
“Always Some One Below” as it appears in Higginson’s When the Birds Go North Again (1898).