I who kept the greenhouse, Lover of trees and flowers, Oft in life saw this umbrageous elm, Measuring its generous branches with my eye, And listened to its rejoicing leaves Lovingly patting each other With sweet æolian whispers. And well they might: For the roots had grown so wide and deep That the soil of the hill could not withhold Aught of its virtue, enriched by rain, And warmed by the sun; But yielded it all to the thrifty roots, Through which it was drawn and whirled to the trunk, And thence to the branches, and into the leaves, Wherefrom the breeze took life and sang. Now I, an under-tenant of the earth, can see That the branches of a tree Spread no wider than its roots. And how shall the soul of a man Be larger than the life he has lived? EDGAR LEE MASTERS SEEDS What shall we be like when We cast this earthly body and attain To immortality? What shall we be like then? Ah, who shall say What vast expansions shall be ours that day? What transformations of this house of clay, To fit the heavenly mansions and the light of day? Ah, who shall say? But this we know,-- We drop a seed into the ground, A tiny, shapeless thing, shrivelled and dry, And, in the fulness of its time, is seen A form of peerless beauty, robed and crowned Beyond the pride of any earthly queen, Instinct with loveliness, and sweet and rare, The perfect emblem of its Maker's care. This from a shrivelled seed?-- --Then may man hope indeed! For man is but the seed of what he shall be, When, in the fulness of his perfecting, He drops the husk and cleaves his upward way, Through earth's retardings and the clinging clay, Into the sunshine of God's perfect day. No fetters then! No bonds of time or space! But powers as ample as the boundless grace That suffered man, and death, and yet, in tenderness, Set wide the door, and passed Himself before-- As He had promised--to prepare a place. Yea, we may hope! For we are seeds, Dropped into earth for heavenly blossoming. Perchance, when comes the time of harvesting, His loving care May find some use for even a humble tare. We know not what we shall be--only this-- That we shall be made like Him--as He is. JOHN OXENHAM "LORD, I ASK A GARDEN" Lord, I ask a garden in a quiet spot where there may be a brook with a good flow, an humble little house covered with bell-flowers and a wife and a son who shall resemble Thee. I should wish to live many years, free from hates, and make my verses, as the rivers that moisten the earth, fresh and pure. Lord, give me a path with trees and birds.