Since I placed my cherry seed in the gra.s.s.
"Must have a tree of my own," I said-
And watered it once and went to bed
And forgot; but cherries have a way of growing
Though no one"s caring very much or knowing,
And suddenly that summer, near the end of May,
I found a tree had come to stay.
It was very small, a five months" child,
Lost in the tall gra.s.s running wild.
Goats ate the leaves, gra.s.scutter"s scythe
Split it apart, and a monsoon blight
Shrivelled the slender stem . . . Even so,
Next spring I watched three new shoots grow,
The young tree struggle, upwards thrust
Its arms in a fresh fierce l.u.s.t
For light and air and sun.
I could only wait, as one
Who watches, wondering, while Time and the rain
Made a miracle from green growing pain . . .
I went away next year-
Spent a season in Kashmir-
Came back thinner, rather poor,
But richer by a cherry tree at my door.
Six feet high, my own dark cherry,
And-I could scarcely believe it-a berry,
Ripened and jewelled in the sun,
Hung from a branch-just one!
And next year there were blossoms, small
Pink, fragile, quick to fall
At the merest breath, the sleepiest breeze . . .
I lay on the gra.s.s, at ease,
Looked up through leaves, at the blue
Blind sky, at the finches as they flew