A Pessimist's Garden.

Four dead roses on one little tree.
That's all there is in my garden.
None of the roses are open in bloom,
They're only closed buds that harden.

One rose is Love, another is Joy;
The other two grow together—
Faith in the ultimate good of thing,
And Hope for some gladsome weather.

Never a butterfly comes that way.
Nor a bee, so briskly winging,
Never a bird with quivering throat
Will pour out its heart in singing.

And no one comes to water my tree.
The little tree in my garden.
No one cares for the delicate buds;
They're left to wither and harden.

The sharp winds blow, but the tree lives on,
The ground bare sustenance giving;
A shriveled, stunted and sickly growth,
What good does it find in living ?

M. L. N.