In the soporific squalor of
Impending rain
which resigns itself somehow
to apathy;

else in the merry-making sun
where religion presses
in the sky and after rains
do heavy trod:

there stirs beneath the manic
mind of nature naturing:
‘neath tufts of wheat or
fallow fields which ride
on coasting hills;
at the crabby toes of
rocky tides muffled by
the creeping fingers of the water;
or at the knotted oak—
a wildflower, simmering with glee
and all ways gold.

Does she think which way
mother sun will turn her head;
or if the unsown fields will
raise her better than the tide?
Does she wander into fortune,
or does the happen-stance of life
become her evanescent being?

So it is, one day a curious
student of adventure finds her,
plucks her for
her beauty, and away,
beneath the shadows of a moon
conspires—

While soon the golden crown
of wholesome wildflower
bends beneath the breast
of maidens, courtesans,
and whores; how many
hearts it toils on—

Until the sentimental icon,
from years in rapture olden made
stirs from in its hiding place
on mantels and lays its
shriveled head upon a father’s
corpse, so soon down to the grave—

Unto the dust, fair flower returned,
in the heather of a field sullied with
the wanton weeds ever searching
for their proper home, and sometimes
sun alighting there—

Sweet wildflower, who knew you best
to call you each their own?
What home had you?
What sentimental life that knew its plan
before the plan was finished?

Ah, sweet wildflower, you are a
servant to the whim of time!
but in such patient living,
still were you the lovèd same—

a wildflower simmering with glee
and all ways gold.