Classic Poem

Bloom

When flowers thrust their heads above the ground
in showers pale as raindrops, and as round,
who would suspect that such, before they're gone,
could hold the sun?

So fine a pressure from above can bring
so frail a thing to push its way aloft?—
through clay, a woman might consider cloth
for constant stitching?

Right straight down and right straight up again,
through holes so close, no manly eye can see
the bloom come out of needles—or can she
be using rain?

And now that she still labors in the gloom,
her room just lighted by the sun turned moon—
need any man be told what flowers are,
that hold a star?English