The Incentive

I SAW a sickly cellar plant

Droop on its feeble stem, for want

Of sun and wind and rain and dew --

Of freedom! -- Then a man came through

The cellar, and I heard him say,

"Poor, foolish plant, by all means stay

Contented here; for -- know you not? --

This stagnant dampness, mold and rot

Are your incentive to grow tall

And reach that sunbeam on the wall."

-- Even as he spoke, the sun's one spark

Withdrew, and left the dust more dark.

Sarah Norcliffe Cleghorn

Index to poems in the collection by Sarah Norcliffe Cleghorn