Flowers, so faithful to earth that has sent them hither

Flowers, so faithful to earth that has sent them hither,

whom we lend fate from the borders of fate — and yet

who knows, when we think we see them regretfully wither,

if it is not for us to be their regret?

To all that would soar our selves are the grand aggravation,

we lay them on all we encounter, proud of their weight;

what terrifying teachers we are for that part of creation

which loves its eternally childish state.

Gould someone but take them right into his slumber and sleep

deeply with things, how differently, lightly he'd wander

back to a different day out of that communal deep.

Or, it may be, he would stay, and they'd blossom and praise

him, the converted, now one of them and all yonder

silent brothers and sisters in woodlands and ways.