Blight
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ard seeds of hate I plantedThat should by now be grown,--Rough stalks, and from thick stamensA poisonous pollen blown,And odors rank, unbreathable,From dark corollas thrown! At dawn from my damp gardenI shook the chilly dew;The thin boughs locked behind meThat sprang to let me through;The blossoms slept,--I sought a placeWhere nothing lovely grew. And there, when day was breaking,I knelt and looked around:The light was near, the silenceWas palpitant with sound;I drew my hate from out my breastAnd thrust it in the ground. Oh, ye so fiercely tended,Ye little seeds of hate!I bent above your growingEarly and noon and late,Yet are ye drooped and pitiful,--I cannot rear ye straight! The sun seeks out my garden,No nook is left in shade,No mist nor mold nor mildewEndures on any blade,Sweet rain slants under every bough:Ye falter, and ye fade.
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