Hard seeds of hate I planted <br /> That should by now be grown,— <br />Rough stalks, and from thick stamens <br /> A poisonous pollen blown, <br />And odors rank, unbreathable, <br /> From dark corollas thrown! <br /> <br />At dawn from my damp garden <br /> I shook the chilly dew; <br />The thin boughs locked behind me <br /> That sprang to let me through; <br />The blossoms slept,—I sought a place <br /> Where nothing lovely grew. <br /> <br />And there, when day was breaking, <br /> I knelt and looked around: <br />The light was near, the silence <br /> Was palpitant with sound; <br />I drew my hate from out my breast <br /> <br /> And thrust it in the ground. <br /> <br />Oh, ye so fiercely tended, <br /> Ye little seeds of hate! <br />I bent above your growing <br /> Early and noon and late, <br />Yet are ye drooped and pitiful,— <br /> I cannot rear ye straight! <br /> <br />The sun seeks out my garden, <br /> No nook is left in shade, <br />No mist nor mold nor mildew <br /> Endures on any blade, <br />Sweet rain slants under every bough: <br /> Ye falter, and ye fade.<br /><br />Edna St. Vincent Millay<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/blight/
