And weeds which flourish just inside the dip,

Holding their tenure with a firm deep grip

Where prouder things all die.

Small wonder I

Tend my tall weed as tho' it were a gem,

Note every leaf, and watch the stalwart stem

Wax strong and high—

My weed plot lives in reckless luxury.

But, in the Spring, before black grime

Has done its worst,

And cruel Time

And dust accursed

Have marred the innocence of each young leaf,

Or soiled the blossoms, like a wanton thief—

Masses of tulips, pink and white,

Rise from the earth in prim delight,

And iris, king of pomp and state,

In vesture fine

And purple and pale gold

Its buds unfold—

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