The maple trees, red-budded, stand
Against a leaden sky,
Their tips a surer promise
Than the wind's wild prophecy.
O God, may I so rooted be,
So grounded, so aflame
With love, that winds of winter past
Can have no power to chill or blast
Buds opening in Thy name.
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Poems
The Buds
From the March 1965 issue of The Christian Science Journal