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Rh But tenderness failed, and loving care, and the chalice of faith was dried When the next Spring blossoms had spoken their promise—smiled at the sun and lied; The heart of the petals was withered to dust. Then, for duty, I trusted again; For who should stand if God were to frown on the twice-told failures of men? Unloving I tended, with care increased, but never a song or smile; For duty is love that is dead but is kept from the grave for a while.

The third year came, with the sweet young leaves, and I could not fear or doubt; But the petals smiled at the sun and lied,—and the curse in my blood leaped out! "This corpse," I cried, "that has cumbered the earth, let it hence to the waste be torn!" That moment of wrath beheld its death—while to me was a life-truth born: The straight young trunk at my feet lay prone; and I bent to scan the core. And there read the pitiful secret the noble sapling bore.