MY garden, long time desolate,
Were still of pleasure reft and bare
But for one single, lonely bloom
That would insist on flowering there.
A fragile thing, in that chill place
It grew where other joys were not,
Waxing a lovelier hope each day,—
Albeit half tended, half forgot,—
Until with wild, resistless charm
That sorrow's very self doth cheat,
It maketh of my desert drear
A sunlit garden, fresh and sweet.