Last night he said the dead were dead <br />And scoffed my faith to scorn; <br />I found him at a tulip bed <br />When I passed by at morn. <br />'O ho!' said I, 'the frost is near <br />And mist is on the hills, <br />And yet I find you planting here <br />Tulips and daffodils.' <br />''Tis time to plant them now,' he said, <br />'If they shall bloom in Spring'; <br />'But every bulb,' said I, 'seems dead, <br />And such an ugly thing.' <br />'The pulse of life I cannot feel, <br />The skin is dried and brown. <br />Now look!' a bulb beneath my heel <br />I crushed and trampled down. <br />In anger then he said to me: <br />'You've killed a lovely thing; <br />A scarlet blossom that would be <br />Some morning in the Spring.' <br />'Last night a greater sin was thine,' <br />To him I slowly said; <br />'You trampled on the dead of mine <br />And told me they are dead.<br /><br />Edgar Albert Guest<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bulb-planting-time/
