I planted dry, brown, ugly bulbs
In earth dark, moist, and bare;
The chilling wind of Autumn sang
Its death-song of despair.
“Poor bulbs,” I thought and said a prayer,
“They have no chance, I fear,”
And Winter came and lingered long;
Then skies began to clear.
And with the warm spring sun there came
Long spears of brightest green
And then such proud and gorgeous blooms
They might have graced a queen.
Who, now, can watch this miracle
Of sun and rain and sod,
And still in utter truth declare,
“I don’t believe in God”?
August 2, 1942