Disappointed
An old man planted and dug and tended,Toiling in joy from dew to dew;The sun was kind, and the rain befriended;Fine grew his orchard and fair to view.Then he said: “I will quiet my thrifty fears,For here is fruit for my failing years.”
But even then the storm-clouds gathered,Swallowing up the azure sky;The sweeping winds into white foam latheredThe placid breast of the bay, hard by;Then the spirits that raged in the darkened airSwept o’er his orchard and left it bare.
The old man stood in the rain, uncaring,Viewing the place the storm had swept;And then with a cry from his soul despairing,He bowed him down to the earth and wept.But a voice cried aloud from the driving rain;“Arise, old man, and plant again!”