The Garden

CHOKED with ill weeds my garden lay a-dying,
Hard was the ground, no bud had heart to blow,
Yet shone your smile there, with your soft breath sighing:
‘Have patience, for some day the flowers will grow.’

Some weeds you killed, you made a plot and tilled it;
‘My plot,’ you said, ‘rich harvest yet shall give,’
With sun-warmed seeds of hope your dear hands filled it,
With rain-soft tears of pity bade them live.

So, weak among the weeds that had withstood you,
One little pure white flower grew by-and-by;
You could not pluck my flower–alas! how should you?
You sowed the seed, but let the blossom die.

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