A little dust the summer breeze
⁠Had sifted up within a cleft,
A slanted raindrop from the trees,
⁠A tiny seed by chance airs left, —
It was enough, the seedling grew,
And from the barren rock-heart drew
Her dimpled leaf and tender bud,
And dews that did the bare rock stud;
⁠And crowned at length her simple head
With utter sweetness, breathed afar,
And burning like a dusky star, —
⁠Sweetness upon so little fed,
⁠Ah me! ah me!
⁠And yet hearts go uncomforted.

For hearts, dear love, such seedlings are,
⁠That need so little, ah, so less
Than little on this earth, to bear
⁠The sun-sweet blossom, happiness;
And sing, — those dying hearts that come
To go, — their swan-song flying home.
A touch, a tender tone, no more,
A face that lingers by the door
⁠To turn and smile, a fond word said,
A kiss, — these things make heaven; and yet
We do neglect, refuse, forget,
⁠To give that little, ere 'tis fled,
⁠Ah me! ah me!
⁠And sad hearts go uncomforted.
 
I asked of thee but little, nay,
⁠Not for the golden fruit thy bough
Ripens for thee and thine who day
By day beneath thy shadow grow;
Only for what, from that full store,
Had made me rich, nor left thee poor,
A drift of blossom, needed not
For fruit, yet blessing some dim spot.
⁠A touch, a tender word soon said,
Fond tones that seem our dead again
Come back after long years of pain,
⁠Lonely, for these my sick heart bled —
⁠Ah me! ah me!
⁠Sad hearts that go uncomforted.