Like to a wind-blown sapling grow I from The cliff, Sweet, of your skyward-jetting soul,— Shook by all gusts that sweep it, overcome By all its clouds incumbent; O be true To your soul, dearest, as my life to you! For if that soil grow sterile, then the whole Of me must shrivel, from the topmost shoot Of climbing poesy, and my life, killed through, Dry down and perish to the foodless root