CHOKED with ill weeds my garden lay a-dying, br Hard was the ground, no bud had heart to blow, br Yet shone your smile there, with your soft breath sighing: br 'Have patience, for some day the flowers will grow.' br br Some weeds you killed, you made a plot and tilled it; br 'My plot,' you said, 'rich harvest yet shall give,' br With sun-warmed seeds of hope your dear hands filled it, br With rain-soft tears of pity bade them live. br br So, weak among the weeds that had withstood you, br One little pure white flower grew by-and-by; br You could not pluck my flower--alas! how should you? br You sowed the seed, but let the blossom die.