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.