Classic Poem

Tell, little seedling, murmuring germ,
Why are you joyful? What do you sing?
Have you no fear of the crawling thing,
Him that has so many legs? and the worm?

RAIN drops patter above my head—
Drip, drip, drip.
To moisten the mould where my roots are fed—
Sip, sip, sip.
No thought have I of the legged thing,
Of the worm no fear,
When the goal is so near;
Every moment my life has run,
The livelong day I've not ceased to sing:
I must reach the sun, the sun.