The Poem

It is only a little twig

With a green bud at the end;

But if you plant it, 

And Water it,

And set it where the sun will be above it, 

It will grow into a tall bush

With many flowers, 

And leaves which thrust hither and thither sparkling. 

From its root will come freshness, 

And beneath it the grass-blades

Will bend and recover themselves, 

And cash one upon another

In the blowing wind. 

But if you take my twig

And throw it into a closet

With mousetraps and blunted tools, 

It will shrivel and waste. 

And, some days, 

When you open the door, 

You will think it an old twisted nail, 

And sweep it into the dust bin

With other rubbish.