AN old man planted and dug and tended, <br />Toiling in joy from dew to dew; <br />The sun was kind, and the rain befriended; <br />Fine grew his orchard and fair to view. <br />Then he said: 'I will quiet my thrifty fears, <br />For here is fruit for my failing years.' <br />But even then the storm-clouds gathered, <br />Swallowing up the azure sky; <br />The sweeping winds into white foam lathered <br />The placid breast of the bay, hard by; <br />Then the spirits that raged in the darkened air <br />Swept o'er his orchard and left it bare. <br />The old man stood in the rain, uncaring, <br />Viewing the place the storm had swept; <br />And then with a cry from his soul despairing, <br />He bowed him down to the earth and wept. <br />But a voice cried aloud from the driving rain; <br />'Arise, old man, and plant again!'<br /><br />Paul Laurence Dunbar<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/disappointed-8/
