Classic Poem

Because I scatter my seed
Prodigally, and grow
Where the wind has chanced to blow,
You call me a weed.

I look at your gardens fair
With flowers in tidy rows,
And my wild little seed heart knows
I could never be happy there.

My mother was gypsy born,
My father a roving bee,
There is vagabond blood in me,
I am not to be trained and shorn.

I am poor and mean indeed,
But I make the waste place glad,
And the wayside color mad
Where there is room for a weed.