We plant sometimes a tender flower—
Watch and wait through sun and shower;
Mark its tiny leaflets, green,
Then, the upward shoot between,—
Springing, springing, tendrils clinging,
Hopes like cherubs round it winging
Whispering of the blooming time.
Watch the buds burst thro’ their sheathing,
Beauty’s promise, round them wreathing,
Dream of fragrance they enfold,
Lovely blooms, almost, behold,
Reach an eager hand for grasping—
Find the tendrils all unclasping—
Withered, ere the blooming time.