I have loved courage; I have loved the word,
Its look on any printed pate, its shape
On any lips, its meaning, clear unblurred,
In weather faces, seeking no escape
In bitterness from bitter circumstances,
And I have loved it in the candid mind
That, scorning easy falsities, advances
Toward truth, however, seemingly unkind.
I have loved well each winter-blooming flower
And each gaunt, stubborn, twisted tree, that brought
New courage to me in a desperate hour;
For, loving courage, I have always sought
For it in everything that I have known,
Because I have scant courage of my own
–From Think About These Things (written in 1947?)