The Rose and the Weed.
49
What am I beside that grace
But a weed thrust out of place
In a garden where the rose
In her royal beauty grows?
She had looked at one like me
Blindly and unconsciously,
As a queen might idly glance
At the lowly weed perchance.
Yet, ah me, it is the weed
That doth sometimes heal at need.
Should the weed then vainly care
That the royal rose was fair?
Would the rose dispute the place
That the weed's low roots embrace?
And the lover of the rose,
Can I count what love bestows,
Can I price its priceless power
In the reckoning of an hour?
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