EACH flower is a sentinel of God,

And ev'ry tree and ev'ry grassblade. Not

An unseen little stem, but that will stand

And wait and shine, and never ask wherefore

It came and why it has to wither. Thou

Art such a sentinel, O Heart! Thou hast

To stand and bloom and love beside the others,

And wither when thy work is done, the spot

Being given to another, whereupon

Thou standest. And that other heart is growing

And blooming into life beneath thy shade,

As strong as thine, as ruby-red as thine,

To wither and to fall beneath the scythe,

As thine has done. Why ask and why despair?

Why not be happy with the sun, the dew,

The other flowery hearts that, full of life

Unfold their petals, which are deep like thine,

And rich as thine? Ye are to be a glorious

And many-coloured meadow. Is it not

Enough? And must ye grumble? Must ye strive

To take away the light and dew, that fall

Not to your share? Behold the scythe! And sow

Thy seed and ask not where it falls. The wind

Of fate has carried it away, to place

Another sentinel, as unknown, as

Unsought for as thyself, in a far land,

To live when thou art gone, to bloom into

Some unexpected beauty with thy strength,

Thy blood, the thoughts that were companions once

To thee and that the wind hath blown so far

Away. Thou shalt not say unto thy seed:

"Fly thither!" It obeyeth not thy will.

Thou shalt not long to be another plant;

Thy tragedy is useless, and thy will

Is nought. With all thy strength thou art but what

Is wanted—tree or grassblade—never ask

Wherefore? Here is no answer. Fate itself

Knows not wherefore it blows, or tells thee not,

But takes thy noblest self to other climes

And leaves thee to the scythe. Complain not! Mourn not!

Long not to live another day, when thou

Art called, but bow thy head without a sigh,

In gentle acquiescence, sentinel!