Lloyd Mifflin

To a Maple Seed

ART thou some wingëd Sprite, that, fluttering round,
Exhausted on the grass at last doth lie,      
Or wayward Fay? Ah, weakling, by and by
Thyself shalt grow a giant, strong and sound,
When, like Antaeus, thou dost touch the ground.
O happy Seed! it is not thine to die;
Thy wings bestow thine immortality,        
And thou canst bridge the deep and dark profound.
I hear the ecstatic song the wild bird flings,
In future summers, from thy leafy head!
What hopes! what fears! what rapturous sufferings!
What burning words of love will there be said!        
What sobs—what tears! what passionate whisperings!
Under thy boughs, when I, alas! am dead.