  decorative EACH flower is a sentinel of God, And ev'ry tree and ev'ry grassblade. Not An unseen little stem, but that will stand And wait and shine, and never ask wherefore It came and why it has to wither. Thou Art such a sentinel, O Heart! Thou hast To stand and bloom and love beside the others, And wither when thy work is done, the spot Being given to another, whereupon Thou standest. And that other heart is growing As strong as thine, as ruby-red as thine, To wither and to fall beneath the scythe, As thine has done. Why ask and why despair? Why not be happy with the sun, the dew, The other flowery hearts that, full of life Unfold their petals, which are deep like thine, And rich as thine? Ye are to be a glorious And many-coloured meadow. Is it not Enough? And must ye grumble? Must ye strive To take away the light and dew, that fall Not to your share? Behold the scythe! And sow Thy seed and ask not where it falls. The wind Of fate has carried it away, to place Another sentinel, as unknown, as To live when thou art gone, to bloom into Some unexpected beauty with thy strength, Thy blood, the thoughts that were companions once To thee and that the wind hath blown so far Away. Thou shalt not say unto thy seed: "Fly thither!" It obeyeth not thy will. Thou shalt not long to be another plant; Thy tragedy is useless, and thy will Is nought. With all thy strength thou art but what Is wanted—tree or grassblade—never ask Wherefore? Here is no answer. Fate itself Knows not wherefore it blows, or tells thee not, But takes thy noblest self to other climes Long not to live another day, when thou Art called, but bow thy head without a sigh, In gentle acquiescence, sentinel! |
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