University of Virginia Library


231

SONNET.

The vine puts forth her buds—and Heaven may shed
Its gentlest dews; and they may spring and grow,
And rains may fall, and softening nightwinds blow,
To bid them live and multiply—and spread
To branches clustering with goodly fruit!
But yet that vine may fade, and hang in vain,
Cumbering the ground; and there may fall no rain,
Or dew of evening round its withered root!
Go forth, my Tendrils, may some fostering eye,
Smile on your weakness, and ye shall not die!