by John Vance Cheney
Men scorn them, but the wiser day
Looks never from the weeds away.
They honor him as best they may,
And so their humble summer goes.
Sometimes I think the soft winds stay
With them the longest, in their play,
And all the sweet things to them say
They but say over to the rose.
- Share this Poem:
Last updated January 14, 2019