Blight
Hard seeds of hate I planted That should by now be grown,— Rough stalks, and from thick stamens A poisonous pollen blown,
And odors rank, unbreathable, From dark corollas thrown!
At dawn from my damp garden I shook the chilly dew;
The thin boughs locked behind me That sprang to let me through;
The blossoms slept,—I sought a place Where nothing lovely grew.
And there, when day was breaking, I knelt and looked around:
The light was near, the silence Was palpitant with sound;
I drew my hate from out my breast And thrust it in the ground.
Oh, ye so fiercely tended, Ye little seeds of hate!
I bent above your growing Early 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 mildew Endures on any blade,
Sweet rain slants under every bough: Ye falter, and ye fade.
