Blessed are the meek whom hope alone sustains,

Content to grace life’s stage a pauper’s hour,

Who’s measured time marks little progress gained

As creeping vines upon a steeple tower.

Rough heather on the meads, that mauvish blight

Fair spreads across the heath to reach beyond,

As if a flower and weed were fused in plight,

Through some ignoble mix, a peasant’s lawn.

Long after daffodils have met their doom,

The foxgloves and the bluebells fade to green,

And sweets once hailed from nature’s lavish womb

Have lost their promise and since fled the scene;

Here yet the humble heather lives and breathes,

Where flowers decay and bouquet seekers grieve.