CHOKED with ill weeds my garden lay a-dying, <br />Hard was the ground, no bud had heart to blow, <br />Yet shone your smile there, with your soft breath sighing: <br />'Have patience, for some day the flowers will grow.' <br /> <br />Some weeds you killed, you made a plot and tilled it; <br />'My plot,' you said, 'rich harvest yet shall give,' <br />With sun-warmed seeds of hope your dear hands filled it, <br />With rain-soft tears of pity bade them live. <br /> <br />So, weak among the weeds that had withstood you, <br />One little pure white flower grew by-and-by; <br />You could not pluck my flower--alas! how should you? <br />You sowed the seed, but let the blossom die.<br /><br />Edith Nesbit<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-garden-49/
