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The Tulip Grows

Donald P. Goodman III

Version 1.1,
The first warm day in spring, the tulips rise, first spreading out two broad leaves, either way; and then the flower, shyly, as in play, pokes its unopen'd head up toward the skies;
its petals open, bringing loving sighs; now stretching towards the bright, warm light of day, as if it's guided by some tiny fey, it giveth joy to foolish as to wise.
But scarcely born, already beauty dies: its petals on the ground all shortly lay; upon now barren leaves falls summer's ray; the life of spring the later year belies.
In autumn, creeping coldness now applies long-reaching tendrils to where tulips lay; and squeezing out whatever life it may, to end this breathless beauty nature tries.
And suff'ring much, that loveliness now lies beneath the earth as winter seeks to slay all growing things in darkness, cold and gray; in sorrow man to nature's God now cries.
But though the tulip must long agonize, it doth retreat but never doth betray; to suff'ring below ground it doth convey the gifts that nature during spring supplies.
It from th' eternal combat never shies; for in the spring, near dead from that long fray, as answering some silent reveille, the tulip will its journey now reprise.
So love must ever be for those it ties; for sorrow ever seeks to lead astray, but sorrow cannot end, can but delay, and by long trial love only amplifies.
On suffering to flourish love relies; he loves not most who seeks to pain allay, but he who for his friend loves his dismay; from sorrow greater love will e'er arise.