Thus has it always been:
Plucked up, on the wind blown,
once settled again,
the seed has always grown.
Too many times to count,
the bloom was plucked once more,
blown into the wind,
scattered upon Nature's floor.
A kind of Virtue can be found
in shallow roots and hardened ground:
Roots so anchored rarely ache
when Time exposes them to change.
But indeed, if this be Truth,
if shallow bonds are virtuous,
then Virtue must now be content
to fall beside the Road, unspent.
Roots long to extend their reach;
know the crop this soil may reap;
find a home, awake from sleep;
know a joy that makes one weep.
Shallow roots cannot sustain
desires which need a firmer base.
Let sun shine, and fall the rain-
and with deep joy, bring also pain:
And ne'er let Time uproot again.