THE worst of worms: the dagger thoughts of doubt -- The worst of poisons: to mistrust one's power -- These struggled my life's marrow to devour; I was a shoot, whose props were rooted out. Thou pitiedst the poor shoot in that sad hour, And had'st it climb thy kindly words about; To thee, great Master, owe I thanks devout, Should the weak shoot e'er blossom into flower. O still watch o'er it, as it grows apace, That as a tree the garden it may grace Of that fair fay, whose favourite child thou wert. My nurse used of that garden to assert That a strange ringing, wondrous sweet, there dwells, Each flower can speak, each tree with music swells. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOME by LEONIDAS OF ALEXANDRIA MEARY WEDDED by WILLIAM BARNES A SONG OF SYRINX by PATRICK REGINALD CHALMERS SONNET by WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-1759) DOCTOR [OR DOCTUER] HILAIRE by WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND |