A Weed

Louise Chandler Moulton (1835–1908)

OW shall a little weed grow,That has no sun?Rains fall and north winds blow,—What shall be done?

Out come some little pale leavesAt the spring's call,But the harsh north winds blow,And the sad rains fall.

Would'st try to keep it warmWith fickle breath?He must, who would give life,Be Lord of death.

Some day you forget the weed,—Man's thoughts are brief,—And your coldness steals like frostThrough each pale leaf,

Till the weed shrinks back to dieOn kinder sod:Shall a life which found no sunIn death find God?