A tiny seed of little worth,
Brought by the strong west wind
From distant parts, fell to the earth
Where grew none of its kind.
A thousand years with fleeting tread
Swept o'er the fair green earth —
Where is the seed? Forgotten? Dead?
Who says 'twas little worth?
A forest, grand, majestic, stands
Where that small seed was tost,
For in Time's wide, gigantic hands,
No single thing is lost.

No human life ere dawned on earth
But left its impress here
For weal or woe. Still lives its worth
In hearts that held it dear.
A thought which trembling lips impart;
A song, perchance a rhyme,
May thrill the world's great, pulsing heart
Throughout all future time.
Though none may know whence came the thought,
Or what the singer's name,
Still, since a grand result is wrought,
That life was not in vain.

With windmills turning wrong directions,
And signposts pointing up and down
Towards destruction and redemption,
No doubt the wind on which the rooks
Tumble, not flying, is false,
Plays scurvy tricks with values and intentions,
Guides and blows wickedly, for larks
Find hard to dart against a cloud,
To London’s turned, and thirsty loads
Of men with flannel shirts
And girls with flowered hats
Intent on visiting the famous spots,
Ride in their charabancs on roads
That lead away to dirty towns
Dirtier with garages and cheap tea signs.

Faith in divinity would solve most things,
For then the wrong wind certainly
Would be the devil’s wind, and the high trinity
Be guiltless of the windy wrongs.

But ways have changed, and most ways lead
To different places than were said
By those who planned the obvious routes
And now, mistaking the direction,
On miles of horizontal milestones,
Perplexed beyond perplexion,
Catch their poor guts.

The wind has changed, blown inside out
The coverings of dark and light,
Made meaning meaningless. The wrong wind stirs,
Puffed, old with venom, from a crusted mouth.
The changed wind blows, and there’s a choice of signs
To Heaven’s turned, and pious loads
Of neophytes take altered roads.