Classic Poem

Tread not upon the humble roadside flower;
Who knows the secrets its soft core contains?
Perhaps the soul of some dead friend remains
Hidden within its petals, and our power

Can never fathom all its pangs and pains,
When under heedless feet its senses cower;
Nor yet conceive its joy, when for an hour,
Some tender hand to pluck its beauty deigns.

The voiceless soul that dreams there evermore,
Saved from the haggard ruin of a tomb,
Will then in gracefulness our care implore;
And in our trust a lovelier hue assume,
While the sweet memory of a friend of yore,
Breathes forth its love in poems of perfume!