• How contented is the flower,
    To lay about all day,
    And revel in it's vanity,
    Whilst others slave away.

    Should I see a blossom on,
    Some branch, or bush, or bend,
    As surely as the night is dark,
    It will meet it's end.

    How pretty is the flower,
    That never sheds a tear,
    And merely waits for hours,
    Never knowing fear.

    How mournful is the weed,
    Which stands so proud and tall,
    And knows with every seed,
    That soon, it must too fall.

    So there then is the pair of them,
    The flower and the weed,
    One never knowing fear,
    And one fearing every seed.

    One drinks of endless vanity,
    A facade of lively grace,
    One is proud and strong,
    And unbeloved for it's face.

    Which then, is better to have at your side?
    When one is a rose and one doomed to die?
    I think it's best to think of this-
    Why worship the rose, when you may befriend the weed?