‘Tis not merely a man’s selfish desires
That compel him to break ground for loose soil;
When in the morn he wakes to light his fire—
The fuel he consumes each day spent in toil;
When he plants a tree, he envisions which
One of shade, its height, or stability?
Short of time, life itself to him will teach
Branches won’t hold him in adversity;
But then he sees blossoms, and later fruits
As he wipes sweat off his forehead come eve;
Some leaves to make himself a decent suit,
And wood to build a cozy place to sleep.
For what then is man’s trouble in sowing worth;
If not for love that nurtures his tree’s growth?