Poems (Chandler)/A Weed

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A WEED.
HOW shall a little weed grow,  That has no sun? Rains fall and north winds blow,— What shall be done?
Out come some little pale leaves  At the spring's call, But the harsh north winds blow,  And the sad rains fall.
Would'st try to keep it warm  With fickle breath? He must, who would give life,  Be Lord of death.
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Some day you forget the weed,— Man's thoughts are brief,—And your coldness steals like frost  Through each pale leaf,
Till the weed shrinks back to die  On kinder sod: Shall a life which found no sun  In death find God?
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