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.
Poems
The Buds
From the March 1965 issue of The Christian Science Journal
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