Frangas Non Flectas

Walking in the aftermath of a storm,
When all the world sparkled as if glass
Had fallen, and not the rain soft and warm,
My friend nodded when I would pass
A broken oak lying on the ground.
He said, "It faced the thunder's sound,

"And here it lies broken on the ground,
Bereft of its leaves and its might.
Let that be a warning; when thunders sound,
When lightning rides the night,
We had best seek the shelter of the earth,
Where we have our death and birth."

We walked past the oak on earth,
And came to a babbling stream,
Where dreaming fancies might have birth,
Where I could easily stand in dream.
But my friend said, "This is truth indeed!
Do you notice that fragile reed?"

I confessed I had noticed not indeed
No individual from the others' ranks.
My friend nodded, and said, "A reed
Is safe on the bright stream's banks.
It knows other storms have dinned,
And so it bows before the wind.

"And so, when the thunder has dinned,
The reed stands up once again.
If a simple plant can bow before the wind,
Why cannot that simple wisdom men
Learn from the simple, mild plant?
To the thunder a man is but an ant.

"As you can see, the bending plant
Is the one that survives thereafter.
Let us run for shelter, like the ant
When we hear the howling laughter!"
And as onward down the path we trod,
He spoke of obedience, and of God.

I kept quiet. When first this path we trod,
He had spoken mainly of such things.
Something about this place inspired God
To brush him with judgment's wings.
I waited until he had come to the crown
Of his argument, and then asked if down

Men ought to kneel, if no man wears a crown.
When he nodded in surprised pleasure,
I looked at him, said, "That which bends down
Never will tread beauty's measure,"
And strode on quickly down the path.
Bewildered, in the glass-bright rain-aftermath,

He stood silent upon his God-path,
And watched me as I walked away.
Then he shook off shock's aftermath,
And caught me up with, "What do you say?
That the oak is lovelier than the reed?"
"Ah," I said. "That is truth indeed!"

"But the slender, fragile reed
Still lives when the storm is done.
The oak has fallen from his height indeed,
And nevermore will grow in the sun."
"Nevermore," I agreed, "but it throve.
Which did you look upon with a greater love?"

It does not matter that something throve-"
He began in a condescending way.
I laughed, and said, "A greater love
Will ever rest upon that which may
Live, or not--not what is simply alive."
"I don't understand. The oak didn't survive!"

"No, but it was lovelier, when alive,
Than ever your reeds will be.
It will never be enough to simply survive.
And when we come to God, you and me,
Do you think He will love you the more
Because you loved the reeds by the shore?"

"Not because I loved them more,"
He said with a quiet little sneer.
"Because I lived as the reeds by the shore,
In obedience most dear
To the heart of a just and loving God,
He will spare me the punishing rod."

"I truly don't believe in your God.
If you wish another metaphor, then
I will be most happy to apply the rod.
I think the greatest, the loveliest men,
Are those who break, and not bend,
Who tower in beauty until their end."

"But, if they break and will not bend,
Then of what value are they at all?
Yes, even the reeds will have an end.
But if the oak before it dies must fall,
What use is it? The storm can still command
Its fall. No, I do not understand."

I sighed. "You desire duty and command.
But if you do not love and worship beauty,
Then it may be you will never understand.
Loveliness has nothing to do with duty."
He laughed. "You're mad and know it.
You're talking like a fool, or a poet."

"I am mad, and thus well I know it.
I worship the beauty and the gladness.
I worship beauty. Am I a poet?
I know not. But if poetry is madness,
Then perhaps I have some small touch.
Perhaps, after all, I will achieve much."

He sneered, and said, "Some small touch!
You will never achieve if you do not bend."
I smiled, said, "Then I won't achieve much,"
And left him, he who had been my friend,
Walking in the aftermath of the storm,
Bright as glass, in the sun soft and warm.