Part 5
Under a ruined abbey wall, Whose fallen stones, with moss o’ergrown, About the smooth fresh turf were strown, And piled around the roots—and tall, Green-ivied trunks, and branching arms Of beeches, sheltering from the storms, Within its empty, roofless hall— There, in a broken sill, I spied A little blossom, purple-eyed.
I took it thence, and carried far The plant into a greenhouse, where I tended it, with blossoms rare, Until it brightened, like a star Delivered from a passing cloud, That hides it ’neath a silver shroud, Yet fails its loveliness to mar; Until it ceased to be a wild And common thing—and then I smiled.
It grew, and thrived; new buds put forth, And more, and more, and still became More fruitful, till, no more the same Meek, lowly child of the far north, It reared its lordly stem on high, Climbing towards the distant sky, As though it deemed its greater worth Deserved a higher place, and kept Still reaching onwards—then I wept.
I wept, because I thought the weed Showed strange ingratitude to me, And had forgot how lovingly I nourished it when in its need. And then the flower bent down its head, Touched me caressingly, and said: ‘Think not that I forget thy deed, The tender care and constant thought That in my life this change have wrought.
‘Now to the far-off skies I climb, Because I fain would show thee, there Is something higher than the care Of a mere plant, to fill the time God giveth thee. How, then, my love For thee more truly can I prove Than by thus pointing to a clime Where Hope’s fulfilment thou shalt find, And earthly love to heaven’s, bind?’
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So, from a tiny seedling, grows Sweet Friendship’s root from year to year, Nourished alike by smile and tear, By sun and storm, and winter snows Of jealousy and blind mistrust; Through which the deathless plant shall thrust Its growing flower, until it blows At last, within that land on high Where virtues bloom eternally.
F. E. S.
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