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Edith Nesbit - The Garden
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CHOKED with ill weeds my garden lay a-dying, 
    Hard was the ground, no bud had heart to blow, 
Yet shone your smile there, with your soft breath sighing: 
    "Have patience, for some day the flowers will grow." 


Some weeds you killed, you made a plot and tilled it; 
    "My plot," you said, "rich harvest yet shall give," 
With sun-warmed seeds of hope your dear hands filled it, 
    With rain-soft tears of pity bade them live. 


So, weak among the weeds that had withstood you, 
    One little pure white flower grew by-and-by; 
You could not pluck my flower--alas! how should you? 
    You sowed the seed, but let the blossom die.
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