By Nora May French

I twine you, little trellis, close and fond,
  And swing in wistful threads above, beyond,
For air and space to bloom. Be it so.
Ah me!  I love you, but the plant must grow.

I quiver with the call of summer heat,
With all the wild sap stirring at my feet.
My quiet trellis, impotent to know
The earth and sun command me: I must grow.

You cannot share my ardent life apart,
Nor feel the upward straining of my heart.
In every vein the urging currents flow,
Leaf after leaf unfolds: the plant must grow.