A Miracle Demanded

This life is like a tree that flourisheth
With fruit and flower, gay leaf and sprouting twig;
But pestilence is in the wind’s warm breath,
And at the roots the worms and mice grow big.
The gardener, steady in his anxious claims,
Who prunes for love, he says, and not for wage,
Than simple care has more disastrous names,
The most elect: Disease, Death, and Old Age.

Against such foes how shall a tree prevail
To curb its consummation in decay,
And like a tree shall men not strive and fail,
Unless all wonders have not passed away?
Renew an ancient vision, Lord, in me:
Open the young man’s eyes that he may see.