  Comes a muttering from the earth Where speedwell grows and daisies grow, “Pluck these weeds up, root and all, Search what hides below.” Root and all I pluck them out; There, close under, I have found Stumps of thorn with ancient crooks Grappled in the ground. I wrench the thorn-stocks from their hold To set a rose-bush in that place; Love has pleasure in my roses For a summer space. Yet the bush cries out in grief: “Our lowest rootlets turn on rock, We live in terror of the drought Withering crown and stock.” I grow angry with my creature, Tear it out and see it die; Far beneath I strike the stone, Jarring hatefully. Impotently must I mourn Roses never to flower again? Are heart and back too slightly built For a heaving strain? Heave shall break my proud back never, Strain shall never burst my heart: Steely fingers hook in the crack, Up the rock shall start. Now from the deep and frightful pit Shoots forth the spiring phoenix-tree Long despaired in this bleak land, Holds the air with boughs, with bland Fragrance welcome to the bee, With fruits of immortality. |
|
