 | Poems |  |
95
COMPENSATION.
What if my tender roots may haply coil
In a deep mellow soil,
Wherein is found no weed
That killeth all things with its harmful greed,
But only there is nourished mine own reed—
To rear its slender crest
In every hue of richest blossom dressed?
In a deep mellow soil,
Wherein is found no weed
That killeth all things with its harmful greed,
But only there is nourished mine own reed—
To rear its slender crest
In every hue of richest blossom dressed?
If in the sunny mazes of my leaves
The crafty spider weaves—
Or in my fairest bloom
Some worm hath stole, where in delicious gloom
It lies and fattens in its honeyed tomb—
What shall it profit me,
The outward show so fair, the prize I seem to be?
The crafty spider weaves—
Or in my fairest bloom
Some worm hath stole, where in delicious gloom
It lies and fattens in its honeyed tomb—
What shall it profit me,
The outward show so fair, the prize I seem to be?
Still, I may 'scape the worm, the spider's net;
No cursed blight may set
Its dangerous touch anew
Upon my frailest buds, in vile mildew;
My faded flowers the Autumn winds may strew;
But, after all the strife,
If I have borne no fruit, or seed, what use was life?
No cursed blight may set
Its dangerous touch anew
96
My faded flowers the Autumn winds may strew;
But, after all the strife,
If I have borne no fruit, or seed, what use was life?
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