Classic Poem

What is a bird but a living flower?
A flower but the soul of some dead bird?
And what is a weed but the dying breath
Of a perjured word?

A flower is the soul of a singing-bird,
Its scent is the breath of an old-time song
But a weed and a thorn spring forth each day
For a new-done wrong.

Dead souls of song-birds, thro' the green grass,
Or deep in the midst of the golden grain,
In woodland valley, where hill-streams pass,
We flourish again.

We flowers are the joy of the whole wide earth,
Sweet nature's laughter and secret tears—
Whoso hearkens a bird in its spring-time mirth
The song of a flow'r-soul hears!