To a Dead Tree, with a Vine Trained Over It

The dead tree bears; each dried-up bough
With leaves is overgrown,
And wears a living drapery now
Of verdure not his own.
The worthless stock a use has found,
The unsightly branch a grace;
As climbing first, then dropped around,
The green shoots interlace.
So round that Grecian mystic rod
To Hermes' hand assigned, —
The emblem of a helping god —
First leaves, then serpents, twined.
In thee a holier sign I view
Than in Hebrew rods of power;
Whether they to a serpent grew,
Or budded into flower.
This Vine, but for thy mournful prop,
Would ne'er have learned the way
Thy ruined height to overtop,
And mantle thy decay.
O thou, my soul, thus train thy thought
By Sorrow's barren aid!
Deck with the charms that Faith has brought
The blights that Time has made.
On all that is remediless
Still hang thy gentle vails;
And make thy charities a dress,
When other foliage fails.
The sharp, bare points of mortal lot
With kindly growth o'erspread; —
Some blessing on what pleases not,
Some life on what is dead.