The lord of the garden saw it, And he said, when the leaves were sere, "Cut down this tree so worthless, And plant another here. My garden is not for beauty Alone, but for fruit, as well, And no barren tree must cumber The place in which I dwell." The gardener heard in sorrow, For he loved the barren tree As we love some things about us That are only fair to see. "Leave it one season longer, Only one more, I pray," He plead, but the lord of the garden Was firm, and answered, "Nay." Then the gardener dug about it, And cut its roots apart, And the fear of the fate before it Struck home to the poor tree's heart. Faithful and true to his master, Yet loving the tree as well, The gardener toiled in sorrow Till the stormy evening fell. "Tomorrow," he said, "I will finish The task that I have begun." But the morrow was wild with tempest, And the work remained undone. And through all the long, bleak winter There stood the desolate tree, With the cold white snow about it,-- A sorrowful thing to see. At last, the sweet spring weather Made glad the hearts of men, And the trees in the lord's fair garden Put forth their leaves again. "I will finish my task tomorrow," The busy gardener said, And thought, with a thrill of sorrow, That the beautiful tree was dead. The lord came into his garden At an early hour next day, And to the task unfinished The gardener led the way. And lo! all white with blossoms, Fairer than ever to see, In the promise of coming fruitage Stood the sorely-chastened tree. "It is well," said the lord of the garden. And he and the gardener knew That out of its loss and trial Its promise of fruitfulness grew. It is so with some lives that cumber For a time the Lord's domain. Out of trial and bitter sorrow There cometh countless gain, And fruit for the Master's harvest Is borne of loss and pain. A DAY IN JUNE I could write such a beautiful poem About this summer day If my pen could catch the beauty Of every leaf and spray, And the music all about me Of brooks, and winds, and birds, But the greatest poet living Cannot put them into words. If I might, you would hear all through it The whispering of the breeze, Like a fine and far-off echo Of the ocean's harmonies. You would hear the song of the robin A-swing in the appletree, And the voice of the river going On its search for the great gray sea. You would breathe the fragrance of clover In the words of every line, And incense out of the censors Of hillside larch and pine. You would see through the words the roses And deep in their hearts of gold The sweets of a thousand summers, But words are so weak, so cold!