A Weed

How shall a little weed grow,
That has no sun?
Rains fall and north winds blow,—
What shall be done?

Out come some little pale leaves
At the spring's call,
But the harsh north winds blow,
And sad rains fall.

Would'st try to keep it warm
With fickle breath?
He must, who would give life,
Be Lord of death.

Some day you forget the weed,—
Man's thoughts are brief,—
And your coldness steals like frost
Through each pale leaf,

Till the weed shrinks back to die
On kinder sod:
Shall a life which found no sun
In death find God?