<h2><SPAN name="poem53"></SPAN>THE TENDRIL’S FATE</h2>
<p class="poetry">Under the snow, in the dark and the cold,<br/>
A pale little sprout was humming;<br/>
Sweetly it sang, ’neath the frozen mould,<br/>
Of the beautiful days that were coming.</p>
<p class="poetry">“How foolish your songs!” said a
lump of clay;<br/>
“What is there, I ask, to prove them?<br/>
Just look at the walls between you and the day,<br/>
Now, have you the strength to move them?”</p>
<p class="poetry">But under the ice and under the snow<br/>
The pale little sprout kept singing,<br/>
“I cannot tell how, but I know, I know,<br/>
I know what the days are bringing.</p>
<p class="poetry">“Birds, and blossoms, and buzzing bees,<br/>
Blue, blue skies above me,<br/>
Bloom on the meadows and buds on the trees<br/>
And the great glad sun to love me.”</p>
<p class="poetry">A pebble spoke next: “You are quite
absurd,”<br/>
It said, “with your song’s
insistence;<br/>
For <i>I</i> never saw a tree or a bird,<br/>
So of course there are none in existence.”</p>
<p class="poetry">“But I know, I know,” the tendril
cried,<br/>
In beautiful sweet unreason;<br/>
Till lo! from its prison, glorified,<br/>
It burst in the glad spring season.</p>
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