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In the heart of my garden I planted a tree—I had chosen the noblest shoot:
It was sheltered and tended, and hope reached out for the future's precious fruit.
The years of its youth flew past, and I looked on a spreading tree
All gloried with maiden blossoms, that smiled their promise to me.
I lingered to gaze on their color and shape—I knew I had chosen well;
And I smiled at the death that was promise of life as the beautiful petals fell.
But the joy was chilled, though the lip laughed on, by the withered proof to the eye:
The blossoms had shielded no tender bud, but cradled a barren lie.
Before me it lay, the mystery—the asking, the promise, the stone;
The tree that should give good fruit was bare—the cause unseen, unknown!

But I said: Next year it shall burgeon, my part shall be faithfully done;
My love shall be doubled—I trust my tree for its beautiful strength alone.