There is no proclaimed flower nor yet no

Ascribed weed immured by fate within its

Fretted hour—judged by outward grace alone;

But in her scented glory yet she waits…

Assessed of worth there sole by sight and smell,

Defiled by hideous vermin that debase—

The frail petals of her blossom’s shell

And stain her virtue, ever to disgrace.

Where is the story that she proudly tells…

Dear clods of earth, protected there from rain

Or of the nectar that her blossom swells;

Her simple essence that assuages pain,

Unseen, her labors gave the world its breath—

And even now, she nourishes in death.