"Among the rest a small unsightly root,
But of divine effect, he culled me out;
The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it,
But in another country, as he said,
Bore a bright golden flower, but not in this soil; . . .
He called it Harmony."—Milton.
A little dust the summer breeze
Had sifted up within a cleft,
A slanted raindrop from the trees,
A tiny seed by chance airs left,—
It was enough, the seedling grew,
And from the barren rock-heart drew
Her dimpled leaf and tender bud,
And dews that did the bare rock stud;
And crowned at length her simple head
With utter sweetness, breathed afar,
And burning like a dusky star,—
Sweetness upon so little fed,
Ah me! ah me!
And yet hearts go uncomforted.
For hearts, dear love, such seedlings are,
That need so little, ah, so less
Than little on this earth, to bear
The sun-sweet blossom, happiness;
And sing,—those dying hearts that come
To go,—their swan-song flying home.
A touch, a tender tone, no more,
A face that lingers by the door
To turn and smile, a fond word said,
A kiss,—these things make heaven; and yet
We do neglect, refuse, forget,
To give that little, ere 'tis fled,
Ah me! ah me!
And sad hearts go uncomforted.
I asked of thee but little, nay,
Not for the golden fruit thy bough
Ripens for thee and thine who day
By day beneath thy shadow grow;
Only for what, from that full store,
Had made me rich, nor left thee poor,
A drift of blossom, needed not
For fruit, yet blessing some dim spot.
A touch, a tender word soon said,
Fond tones that seem our dead again
Come back after long years of pain,
Lonely, for these my sick heart bled—
Ah me! ah me!
Sad hearts that go uncomforted.
