It grew, and thrived; new buds put forth,
And more, and more, and still became
More fruitful, till, no more the same
Meek, lowly child of the far north,
It reared its lordly stem on high,
Climbing towards the distant sky,
As though it deemed its greater worth
Deserved a higher place, and kept
Still reaching onwards—then I wept.
I wept, because I thought the weed