Much Fruit

It is the branch that bears the fruit

That feels the knife,

To prune it for a larger growth

And fuller life,

Though every budding twig be lopped

And every grace

Of swaying tendril, springing leaf

Be lost a space.

Oh, thou whose life of joy seems reft,

Of beauty shorn,

Whose aspirations lie in dust,

All bruised and torn,

Rejoice, though each desire, each dream,

Each hope of thine

Shall fall and fade; it is the hand of love divine

That holds the knife, that cuts and breaks

With tenderest touch,

That thou, whose life hast borne some fruit,

May now bear much.

– Annie Johnson Flint