Sweet Hours by Carmen Sylva — Read

Each flower is a sentinel of God, / And ev'ry tree and ev'ry grassblade. Not / An unseen little stem, but that will stand / And wait and shine, and never ask wherefore / It came and why it has to wither. Thou / Art such a sentinel, O Heart! Thou hast / To stand and bloom and love beside the others, / And wither when thy work is done, the spot / Being given to another, whereupon / Thou standest. And that other heart is growing / And blooming into life beneath thy shade, / As strong as thine, as ruby-red as thine, / To wither and to fall beneath the scythe, / As thine has done. Why ask and why despair? / Why not be happy with the sun, the dew, / The other flowery hearts that, full of life / Unfold their petals, which are deep like thine, / And rich as thine? Ye are to be a glorious / And many-coloured meadow. Is it not / Enough? And must ye grumble? Must ye strive / To take away the light and dew, that fall / Not to your share? Behold the scythe! And sow / Thy seed and ask not where it falls. The wind / Of fate has carried it away, to place / Another sentinel, as unknown, as / Unsought for as thyself, in a far land, / To live when thou art gone, to bloom into / Some unexpected beauty with thy strength, / Thy blood, the thoughts that were companions once / To thee and that the wind hath blown so far / Away. Thou shalt not say unto thy seed: / "Fly thither!" It obeyeth not thy will.

Thou shalt not long to be another plant; / Thy tragedy is useless, and thy will / Is nought. With all thy strength thou art but what / Is wanted -- tree or grassblade -- never ask / Wherefore? Here is no answer. Fate itself / Knows not wherefore it blows, or tells thee not, / But takes thy noblest self to other climes / And leaves thee to the scythe. Complain not! Mourn not! / Long not to live another day, when thou / Art called, but bow thy head without a sigh, / In gentle acquiescence, sentinel!