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But tenderness failed, and loving care, and the chalice of faith was dried
When the next Spring blossoms had spoken their promise—smiled at the sun and lied;
The heart of the petals was withered to dust. Then, for duty, I trusted again;
For who should stand if God were to frown on the twice-told failures of men?
Unloving I tended, with care increased, but never a song or smile;
For duty is love that is dead but is kept from the grave for a while.

The third year came, with the sweet young leaves, and I could not fear or doubt;
But the petals smiled at the sun and lied,—and the curse in my blood leaped out!
"This corpse," I cried, "that has cumbered the earth, let it hence to the waste be torn!"
That moment of wrath beheld its death—while to me was a life-truth born:
The straight young trunk at my feet lay prone; and I bent to scan the core.
And there read the pitiful secret the noble sapling bore.