All potency for pain and pleasure binds,
Confined to freely ebb from causal shell;
Then, urged by current convalescing mind
My heart parts way with what decaying, fell.
What if the sapling's ardor fails to flower,
So choked from light by canopy of old?
From bitter yield, I've winnowed only sorrow;
Love's fruitless growth has left it bare and cold.
Quickening, each pattern passed holds lessen -
With way now cleared, I remain resolute:
Dreaming of trunk's branches' fruitful blossom,
I make the means for chance to sweetly root.
     Though Nature bounding, I still wonder why
     Life, bourne by grief, seems made to die.