Classic Poem

My vineyard that is mine I have to keep,
Pruning for fruit the pleasant twigs and leaves.
Tend thou thy cornfield: one day thou shalt reap
In joy thy ripened sheaves.

Or if thine be an orchard, graft and prop
Food-bearing trees each watered in its place:
Or if a garden, let it yield for crop
Sweet herbs and herb of grace.

But if my lot be sand where nothing grows?—
Nay, who hath said it? Tune a thankful psalm:
For tho' thy desert bloom not as the rose,
It yet can rear thy palm.