A hollow on the verge of May,
Thick strewn with drift of leaves. Beneath
The densest drift a thrusting sheath
Of sharp green striving toward the day!
I mused — " So dull Obstruction sets
A bar to even violets,
When these would go their nobler way! "

My feet again, some days gone by,
The self-same spot sought idly. There,
Obstruction foiled, the adoring air
Caressed a blossom woven of sky
And dew, whose misty petals blue,
With bliss of being thrilled athrough,
Dilated like a timorous eye.

Reck well this rede, my soul! The good
The blossom craved was near, tho' hid.
Fret not that thou must doubt, but rid
Thy sky-path of obstruction strewed
By winds of folly. Then, do thou
The Godward impulse room allow
To reach its perfect air and food!