Enough? And must ye grumble? Must ye strive

To take away the light and dew, that fall

Not to your share? Behold the scythe! And sow

Thy seed and ask not where it falls. The wind

Of fate has carried it away, to place

Another sentinel, as unknown, as

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Unsought for as thyself, in a far land,

To live when thou art gone, to bloom into

Some unexpected beauty with thy strength,

Thy blood, the thoughts that were companions once

To thee and that the wind hath blown so far

Away. Thou shalt not say unto thy seed:

"Fly thither!" It obeyeth not thy will.

Thou shalt not long to be another plant;

Thy tragedy is useless, and thy will

Is nought. With all thy strength thou art but what

Is wanted—tree or grassblade—never ask

Wherefore? Here is no answer. Fate itself

Knows not wherefore it blows, or tells thee not,

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