  decorative IF green the corn and burning the volcano, Though snowclad, buried under rocks of ice, Why shall the heart not love and burn in waving Expectant green, or rising flames of hot Enthusiasm, or burst into a torrent Of wrath, though snow the summit long hath crowned? Behold! The field is green, the seed has risen That thou hast thrown into these aching furrows, Once ploughed by Destiny, and sown with sorrow And watered with the wells of tears, that dropped They see the snow upon thine head, but not The corn and not the threat'ning furnace of Thy soul. They think it is extinct, they hope Thou hast forgotten, that the gentle warmth They feel is sunshine, not the stormy fire, That cannot cease to burn: for it remembers. |
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