So, I walk within my garden; it is cold; and I am chilled!
I’ve still earth, but seek a memory of the birds’ last summer trill.
I’ve an old tree standing there. Will I once more see it leaf?
The surrounding ground seems spent; I am filled with winter’s grief.
I suppose should I just wander past, and clean the pathways here,
I could wake one morn to Spring! The sun would melt away my fear.
You have left me but a plot of land. What have I to gain from toil?
It’s then I grasp your guiding words: what I sow will grace the soil!
