Classic Poem

Thou , in whose garden! have grown apace,
Plant of no grace,
Filling a good tree's place,
Spreading no shade, nor showing any fruit —
Thankless from crown to root!

Thou who, these many years, hast come and found,
On tree or ground,
Sound, be it, or unsound,
No fig to praise thee for thy patient care —
Stubborn, and dry and bare! . . . .

" Why cumb'rest thou the ground then? " — Aye, Lord! why?
To live or die,
Fruitless alike? I cry.
To lay my life out in one meed, to give
To thee, my Lord — and live!

" One year more, Master! — One year for my own!
Let him alone.
With shame, and sob, and groan,
I'll dig around his heart-roots — graft and prune. "
" Then, if for all he bear not? " ... " Ah! so soon?
Lord, give us one year more! "