Weeds

The little house in which I live looks out
Upon a garden, where I love to walk,
Or sit and dream and listen to the talk
Of others, moving restlessly about.
Sometimes the echo of a merry shout,—
Again the raucous tones of those who mock,
Of those who yield and e'en of those who knock,
Inflame my heart, or chill my soul with doubt.

These human plants within the garden growing
Are they the fruit, the sample of the sowing?
And the stink-weeds that flourish wildly there,
Are they as well the objects of His care?
Of malice, envy, hate and strife, God knows
Injustice is the rankest weed that grows.