I Watched A Rosebud Very Long Brought On By Dew And Sun And Shower, Waiting To See The Perfect Flower: Then, When I Thought It Should Be Strong, It Opened At The Matin Hour And Fell At Evensong. I Watched A Nest From Day To Day, A Green Nest Full Of Pleasant Shade, Wherein Three Speckled Eggs Were Laid: But When They Should Have Hatched In May, The Two Old Birds Had Grown Afraid Or Tired, And Flew Away. Then In My Wrath I Broke The Bough That I Had Tended So With Care, Hoping Its Scent Should Fill The Air; I Crushed The Eggs, Not Heeding How Their Ancient Promise Had Been Fair: I Would Have Vengeance Now. But The Dead Branch Spoke From The Sod, And The Eggs Answered Me Again: Because We Failed Dost Thou Complain? Is Thy Wrath Just? And What If God, Who Waiteth For Thy Fruits In Vain, Should Also Take The Rod?