Where tiny flowers sucked up the drops.
No single thought had gone awaste,
From some there came rich harvest crops.
Long afterward, when death had chilled,
A fallen log lay swathed in vine,
Whence sword-like cacti pushed their blades
And orchids peered 'mid tufted pine.
Such beauteous decay still blessed
As once the wishful, dreamy palm
And trees, that erst reviled, made boast