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.

⁠Awake, dear sleepers, from your wintry tombs;
⁠The sun has turned the point of Capricorn,
⁠And 'gins to pluck from winter's wings the plumes
⁠Of darkness, and to wind his silver horn
⁠For your return. Come to your homes, forlorn
⁠In absence of your odors and your faces;
⁠Like Rachel weeps for you the reaved morn,
⁠As often as she views your empty places,
Erewhile the daily scene of her and your embraces.

⁠Come, pensile snowdrop, like the earliest star
⁠That twinkles on the brow of dusky night;
⁠Come, like the child that peeps from door ajar,
⁠With pallid cheek, upon a wasteful sight:
⁠And shouldst thou rise when all around is white,
⁠The more thou'lt demonstrate the power of God
⁠To shield the weak against the arms of might,
⁠To strengthen feeble shoulders for their load,
And sinking hearts 'mid ills they could not full forebode.
 
⁠Come, crocus cup, the cup where early bees
⁠Sip the first nectar of the liberal year,
⁠Come and illume our green, as similes
⁠Light up the poet's song. And O ye dear
⁠March violets, come near, come breathing near!
⁠You too, fair primroses, in darksome woods
⁠Shine forth, like heaven's constellations clear;
⁠And come, ye daisies, throng in multitudes,
And whiten hills and meadows with your saintly hoods.

⁠Come with thy lilies, May; thy roses, June;
⁠Come with your richer hues, autumnal hours;
⁠O tell your mellowing sun, your regal moon,
⁠Your dewy drops, your soft refreshing showers,
⁠To lift their blessing hands in Flora's bowers,
⁠Nor e'en to scorn the bindweed's flossy gold,
⁠Nor foxglove's banner hung with purple flowers,
⁠Nor solitary heath that cheers the wold,
Nor the last daisy shivering in November's cold!

Not yet, not yet, the light;
Under ground, out of sight,
Like moles, we blindly toil
On,—though we know not where;
Some day the upper air,
The sun, and all things fair,
We reach through the dark soil.