Edna St. Vincent Millay — Blight

Hard seeds of hate I planted         That should by now be grown,— Rough stalks, and from thick stamens         A poisonous pollen blown, And odors rank, unbreathable,         dark corollas thrown! At dawn from my damp garden         I shook the chilly dew; The thin boughs locked behind me         That sprang to let me through; The blossoms slept,—I sought a place         Where nothing lovely grew. And there, when day was breaking,         I knelt and looked around: The light was near, the silence         Was palpitant with sound; I drew my hate from out my breast         And thrust it in the ground. Oh, ye so fiercely tended,         Ye little seeds of hate! I bent above your growing         Early and noon and late, Yet are ye drooped and pitiful,—         I cannot rear ye straight! The sun seeks out my garden,         No nook is left in shade, No mist nor mold nor mildew         Endures on any blade, Sweet rain slants under every bough:         Ye falter, and ye fade.