In a garden’s heart, I stumbled quite by chance,
upon a spot no flower was sown in spring.
Some careless gardener left that fertile place
to stinging cane and to malicious vine.

No fruits have these to bear—but guard a crop
of weeds such as could poison any bed.
But now, in summer’s heat, I’ll pull them up.
I’ll turn the soil and plant a single seed.

The thorny lacerations I will wear
with gladness for the chance to see it grow;
for surely it will be a sweeter flower
than even those which bloom around me now.

But if, dear God, for flowers my plant’s too late,
then let it stand in snow with foliage bright.