There is a Flower, the Lesser Celandine,
That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain;
And, the first moment that the sun may shine,
Bright as the sun itself, 'tis out again!
When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm,--
Or blasts the green field and the trees distress'd,
Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm,
In close self-shelter, like a Thing at rest.
But lately, one rough day, this Flower I pass'd
And recognized it, though an alter'd Form,
Now standing forth an offering to the Blast,
And buffeted at will by Rain and Storm.
I stopp'd, and said with inly muttered voice,
"It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold:
This neither is it's courage nor it's choice,
But it's necessity in being old.
The sunshine may not bless it, nor the dew;
It cannot help itself in it's decay;
Stiff in its members, withered, changed of hue."
And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was grey.
To be a Prodigal's Favorite--then, worse truth,
A Miser's Pensioner--behold our lot!
O Man, that from thy fair and shining youth
Age might but take the things Youth needed not!
Design, coding, and editing: Copyright © 1997 by James M. Garrett. All rights reserved.