POISON-SEEDS

Is there, in you or me,

Seed of that poison-tree

Which, in its bitter fruiting, bore

Such vintage sore

Of red calamity —

Black wine of horror and of Death,

And soul-catastrophe?

Search well and see!

Yea — search and see!

And, if there be —

Tear up its roots with zealous care,

With deep soul-probing and with prayer,

Lest, in the coming years,

Again it bear

This same dread fruit of blood and tears,

And ruth beyond compare.

Each soul that strips it of one evil thing

Lifts all the world towards God's good purposing.