ON the rough roadside of wintry life
I found a faded flower,
With low-bent stem and petals pale,
And leaves which trembled while the gale
Swept through its ruined bower.

I sighed that aught so beautiful,
So redolent of God!
Should mingle with the meanest clay,
Should rot and wither in the way,
And underfoot be trod.

I yearned to have transplanted it,
Yet scarcely dared to do't;
But, anon, I took Love's pruning hook
And bared it to the root.

That root was lank and lifeless grown
As the cold white cheek of death,
For Mirth and Misery oft had met
To blast it by their breath.

I clipped its withered tendrils close,
And lopped each rotten root,
Then watered it with tears until
Green leaves began to shoot.

I placed it in a genial soil,
And turned it to the sun,
Where its blossoming may in summer repay
Me double for labour done.