The richness of a man descends, as
Dew resting on unspoken buds in May;
It gleans the flower from the nervous seed
And urges sun for day—

Tho I would tend and grow my fields
From dust unto the clouds, if they consent:
To graft from blossoms new ones born
With eyes toward heaven bent–

‘Til at the last, the dour rain would pour
And send my flowers to the dust;
‘Tis true, I then will learn with muddy tears:
To God defer, and always must.