Poems (Jackson)/A Parable

by Helen Hunt Jackson

For works with similar titles, see A Parable.

A PARABLE.

AR in the wood I found a vine, so sweetOf flower and leaf that, loving it, I stayedTo learn its secret. Thick around its feetGrew thorny briers, and tangled saplings madeOn every side of it too dark a shade.One tendril by a dead branch held. The restWere folded like proud arms upon its breast.

The rough wind beat it down; it did not break,But, lying low until the storm went by,Lifted its head again, Still it would takeNo help; but, shaking off with scornful eyeThe dust, rose slowly, looking to the sky,Borne up by hidden forces of its own,And stood again erect, a vine, alone.

Far in the wood I whispered then, afraidThe question showed not all my love, "O vine,Brave vine, so sweet and yet so strong, what madeIt easy unto thee? No sun can shineTo warm thee in this cold, unwholesome shade.Why standest thou apart from all the rest,Thy slender proud arms folded on thy breast?

Filling the wood, this subtile whisper thenMy reverent listening heard:My reverent listening heard:"My love, the Oak,Has died. Never before his name to menWho, idly questioning, passed by, I spoke.But thou,—thou lov'st like me; thy secret wokeMy own. Thou know'st to a less lordly thingThe tendrils torn from oaks will never cling."