Ubiquitous Ingrates or, Ultimate Sap
The wild rose grew tall
and collected drops of dew
that ran down its strong stem
to the thriving soil below.
And the rose said:
“Happiness is a purple tulip
growing low, weak and dry
in a garden far away.”
The cryptic, runic nature of this poem reminds me of much of Stephen Crane's work, as in this one:
ReplyDeleteIn the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter -- bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."