Ye who are kicking against Fate, Tell me how it is that on this hill-side Running down to the river, Which fronts the sun and the south-wind, This plant draws from the air and soil Poison and becomes poison ivy? And this plant draws from the same air and soil Sweet elixirs and colors and becomes arbutus? And both flourish? You may blame Spoon River for what it is, But whom do you blame for the will in you That feeds itself and makes you dock-weed, Jimpson, dandelion or mullen And which can never use any soil or air So as to make you jessamine or wistaria?