Classic Poem

WITH A COPY OF THE TRANSLATION OF FAUST

This plant, it may be, grew from vigorous seed,
Within the field of study set by Song;
Sent from its sprouting germ, perchance, a throng
Of roots even to that depth where passions breed;
Chose its own time, and of its place took heed;
Sucked fittest nutriment to make it strong: —
But you from every wayward season's wrong
Did guard it, showering, at its changing need,
Or dew of sympathy, or summer glow
Of apprehension of the finer toil,
And gave it, so, the nature that endures.
Our secret this, the world can never know:
You were the breeze and sunshine, I the soil:
The form is mine, color and odor yours!