THE VINES. 



Frail things, fair things, that creep and climb 

 With seeming sense of rhythm and rhyme, 



That sometimes humbly keep the ground 

 With bloom more sweet than elsewhere found 



Yet sometimes climb where breezes blow, 

 And robins build and come and go, 



You seem to bid men aim like you 



For skyward things ; or (if, though true, 



They fail to rise, as some men must), 

 To live their best, like you, and trust, — 



You weird, frail things that lean and climb, 

 And all but speak with sense and rhyme. 



