WHEN ORCHARDS BLOOM.
25
And what of thee, O sullen heart—
Still busy with thy grieving?
Hast thou no little leaves to start,
Thy barrenness retrieving?
Nay, leave thy chamber, come abroad,
See how the apathetic clod
Awakens at the touch of God,
Spring's sacrament receiving.
Wilt thou not answer to the call,
Thy selfish grief forsaking,
And trust the Love behind it all,
Life's promises partaking?
The frailest little flower that blows
A higher dream of Heaven knows
Than he who dully grieving goes
When round him Spring is breaking.
