Evil grows of itself, grows vigorously. With infinite care we
rear the rare roses, but how spontaneously and luxuriantly
spring the weeds! By costly culture we ripen the golden sheaf,
but how the noxious poppies bloom! Very tenderly must we
nourish things of beauty, but how the vermin breed and swarm!
And so, while the germs of good in our heart come to fruition
only after long years of vigilance and devotion, the tares
are ever springing up in a night, dashing the beauty with
their blackness, and bearing the hundredfold of bitterness
and blasting.--W. L. WATKINSON, “The Transfigured
Sackcloth.”
(957)