To golden grain it gave its sap.
It died, and then 'twas left by men
To rot betimes, or some mishap.
Am I not like the stubble dry
And fragile leaf by tempest strewed?
Must I not die, then tell me why
A thing so frail is thus pursued?
A voice replies: "Thy life is frail,
Much like the leaf and stubble dry;
Thy strength must fail, and as the gale