Classic Poem

Bright little face in the grass,
How came you here?
You never thought I should pass
And see you so clear,
But you stand there as proud and as straight
As a small boy of eight.

Why ever should you choose to grow
In that dingle of dew?
There are hundreds of people I know
Who would love to see you,
But they'll never set eyes on you there
Though you look up and stare.

No one planted you here, I suppose;
You ask nobody's care,
And the breezes the hot summer blows
Will make this spot bare;
Yet the earth will not heave with your sigh
When you lie down to die.

Lank grasses hang drooping about,
Weak, indolent, wet;
Yet their lethargy can't put you out,
Or cause you to fret,
Even when the slack fellows beside you
Seem anxious to hide you.

But splendid, serene and content
You thrive in the earth,
Yourself your own monument
Of incomparable worth,
Gazing up as if under a spell
To live honest and well.

Serenely content just to be,
To stand and reveal
Yourself so that heaven can see
You are living and real:
Your authority no one but God,
Though you spring from the sod:

Looking up undefiant yet proud,
Free of right as of wrong,
Never out for impressing the crowd,
But simple and strong
To unfold and exhale your sweet soul
Unhampered and whole.