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Poem	They said, “don’t plant them,” mother; “they’re so common and so poor;”But of seeds I had no other, so I dropped them by the door;And they soon were brightly growing, in the rich and teeming soil,Stretching upward, upward, upward, to reward me for my toil.They grew all o’er the casement, and they wreathed around the door,All about the chamber windows, upward,—upward, ever more;And each dawn, in glowing beauty, glistening with early dew,Is the house all wreathed with splendor, every morning bright and new.What, if they close at mid-day? ’tis because their work is done,And they shut their crimson petals from the kisses of the sun;Teaching every day their lesson to my weary, panting soul,To be faithful in well doing, stretching upward for the goal,Sending out the climbing tendrils, trusting God for strength and power,[Pg 025]To support, and aid, and comfort, in the trying day and hour.Ne’er spurn the thing that’s common, nor call homely flowers poor,Each hath a holy mission, like my Glory o’er the door.
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