Classic Poem

My front yard ain't no garden spot—
It's chips an' cans an' other junk,
A whisky bottle, like as not,
Smashed on a woodpile by a drunk—
My front yard is a dumpin' ground
For all the broken stuff around.

An' yet the other day I seen
A crack appear—then peepin' through
There come a little leaf of green,
An' in the mornin' there was two;
An' now to-day looks up at me
A smilin' young anemone.

I never knew that it was there
All Winter through awaitin' Spring,
I never thought a place so bare
Could ever grow so sweet a thing;
Yet all the while the tiny seed
Was waitin' Springtime to be freed.

Last night a preacher come to camp
An' sung a song an' read the Word,
An', underneath the dirt an' damp
An' moral junk, a blossom stirred,
A thing I could not understand:
I looked—an' Christ held out His hand.

'Twas not the preacher done it all,
'Twas not his sermon or his smile:
A-listenin' for Jesus' call
My soul had waited all the while—
The seed that heard the parson's pray'r
A word my mother planted there.