I marked the young mimosa gaily dight
With feathery foliage trembling in the breeze,
And tufts of golden flowers, whence drowsy bees,
Sweet laden, hummed their unrestrained delight.
In after years the full-grown tree I passed;
Its flowers and foliage gone, and in their stead
A crop of huge white thorns inspiring dread.
Father! I pray that when life's blooms are cast,
And old age pours its snows upon my head,
Thy kindly hand, whose pruning skill adorns
"The trees of righteousness," may lop my thorns.
And may my roots, with dewy moisture fed,
Nourish a stem to which a child may come
And fearless gather drops of crystal gum.