Transformation

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Transformation

Only a little shrivelled seed,

It might be flower, or grass, or weed;

Only a box of earth on the edge

Of a narrow, dusty window-ledge;

Only a few scant summer showers;

Only a few clear shining hours;

That was all. Yet God could make

Out of these, for a sick child’s sake,

A blossom-wonder, fair and sweet

As ever broke at an angel’s feet.

Only a life of barren pain,

Wet with sorrowful tears for rain,

Warmed sometimes by a wandering gleam

Of joy, that seemed but a happy dream;

A life as common and brown and bare

As the box of earth in the window there;

Yet it bore, at last, the precious bloom

Of a perfect soul in that narrow room;

Pure as the snowy leaves that fold

Over the flower’s heart of gold.