For a long time,
bare and stiff branches stood
Like dry firewood.
Dark wintry months dragged and went ;
No sign of life on the pear-tree.
And yet we knew :
Days would come and we shall guess
A peep of green on the tips of branches,
Heralding life !
What looked dead was harboring sap ;
fresh glorious brooches sprang
From each barren twig.
Who is the Gardener so lovingly at work
To shape the mellow pears
Once the blossom had gone ?
We are the pear-tree, and our lives
Might look bare and barren.
Yet time and divine hands
Work wonders in secret veins.