Classic Poem

In thy circle, painted flower,
What a world of wonder lies!
Yet men pass thee, hour by hour,
With no marvel in their eyes;
Dost thou not the beauty know
In thy bright-streaked round that's dwelling?
When our tongues thy praises show,
Is no pride thy bright robes swelling?
Dost thou feel no joy in living,
Wantoning thus in sun and shower?
Thou canst pleasure still be giving;
Lies no pleasure in the power?
Decked in Nature's tiring-room
By the months, in hues the brightest
Flung from off her magic loom,
Thou the very air delightest,
And the very hours to view thee,
Ere by death thy glory's blighted,
Ere decay hath crept unto thee,
Did they dare, would pause delighted;
Ah, that men, with noteless eyes,
Thus to pass thee should have power,
Marveling not at all that lies
In thy circle, painted flower!