Sonnet I

The vine puts forth her buds — and Heaven may shed
Its gentlest dews; and they may spring and grow,
And rains may fall, and softening nightwinds blow,
To bid them live and multiply — and spread
To branches clustering with goodly fruit !
But yet that vine may fade, and hang in vain,
Cumbering the ground ; and there may fall no rain,
Or dew of evening round its withered root !
Go forth, my Tendrils, may some fostering eye,
Smile on your weakness, and ye shall not die !