Weed Or Flower

    "'Tis but a common thing," one coldly said,
        "Nay, call it not a flower - this little weed,
        If plucking it, I kill it, root and seed -
    Better the world were if it lay there dead."

    "Ah - rather let it live!" a second cried,
        "Weed it may be, and yet it has its use,
        Here in its healing essence its excuse
    For blooming lies, and here its only pride."

    "Destroy it not!" another pled, "Behold
        This tapering leaf - this soft and tender green,
        Upon my canvas it shall bloom serene -
    This tiny chalice-fleck of living gold."

    Then one bent over it, "Ah, flowret bright!
        For only flowers in this garden grow, -
        His earth, His sunshine made thee, o'er thee blow
    His winds, frail thing! In thee He shows His might."

Helen Leah Reed

Helen Leah Reed (1860-1926) was an American author and poet, renowned for her contributions to children's literature and her historical novels. She was an influential literary figure of her time, often remembered for her stories that blended education with entertainment. Reed's works reflected her deep knowledge and interest in history, making her a notable figure in early 20th-century American literature.

Helen Leah Reed

The Harvard Regiment

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

The Annex

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

Severus Speaks

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

His Monument

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Flower

Once in a golden hour
I cast to earth a seed.
Up there came a flower,
The people said, a weed.

To and fro they went
Thro' my garden bower,
And muttering discontent
Cursed me and my flower.

Then it grew so tall
It wore a crown of light,
But thieves from o'er the wall
Stole the seed by night.

Sow'd it far and wide
By every town and tower,
Till all the people cried,
"Splendid is the flower!"

Read my little fable:
He that runs may read.
Most can raise the flowers now,
For all have got the seed.

And some are pretty enough,
And some are poor indeed;
And now again the people
Call it but a weed.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

The Weed

A weed is but an unloved flower!
    Go dig, and prune, and guide, and wait,
    Until it learns its high estate,
And glorifies some bower.
    A weed is but an unloved flower!

All sin is virtue unevolved,
    Release the angel from the clod -
    Go love thy brother up to God.
Behold each problem solved.
    All sin is virtue unevolved.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

All the Rage.

A common wayside flower it grew,
Unhandsome and unnoticed too,
    Except in deprecation
That such an herb unreared by toil,
Prolific cumberer of the soil,
    Defied extermination.

Its gorgeous blooms were never stirred
By honey-bee nor humming-bird
    In their corollas dipping;
But they from clover white and red
Delicious nectar drew instead
    In dainty rounds of sipping.

No place its own euphonious name
Within the catalogue might claim
    Of any flora-lover;
For, in the scores of passers-by,
As yet no true artistic eye
    Its beauty could discover.

The reaper with his sickle keen
Aimed at its crest of gold and green
    With spiteful stroke relentless,
And would have rooted from the ground
The "Solidago" ...

Hattie Howard

The Useful Weed.

        Do not despise the humble weed,
        For the Lord He first sowed the seed,
        Perhaps it bears most precious fruit,
        And useful leaves and potent root.

        Though it seems now a useless weed,
        Countless millions it yet may feed,
        Or future ages it may prize,
        Finding in it beauteous dyes.

        Or a valued healing balm,
        Will make the heated pulse beat calm,
        And the future men of science,
        May place on it strong reliance.

        And it may play important part,
        In advancing skill and art,
        And no person now doth know
        How useful are the weeds that grow.

        Weeds we now look on with loathing,
        They may yet be used for clothing,<...

James McIntyre

The Flitting

I've left my own old home of homes,
Green fields and every pleasant place;
The summer like a stranger comes,
I pause and hardly know her face.
I miss the hazel's happy green,
The blue bell's quiet hanging blooms,
Where envy's sneer was never seen,
Where staring malice never comes.

I miss the heath, its yellow furze,
Molehills and rabbit tracks that lead
Through beesom, ling, and teazel burrs
That spread a wilderness indeed;
The woodland oaks and all below
That their white powdered branches shield,
The mossy paths: the very crow
Croaks music in my native field.

I sit me in my corner chair
That seems to feel itself from home,
And hear bird music here and there
From hawthorn hedge and orchard come;
I hear, but all is strange and ne...

John Clare

Weeds

        White with daisies and red with sorrel
            And empty, empty under the sky!--
        Life is a quest and love a quarrel--
            Here is a place for me to lie.

        Daisies spring from damned seeds,
            And this red fire that here I see
        Is a worthless crop of crimson weeds,
            Cursed by farmers thriftily.

        But here, unhated for an hour,
            The sorrel runs in ragged flame,
        The daisy stands, a bastard flower,
            Like flowers that bear an honest name.

        And here a while, where no wind brings
            The baying of a pack athirst,
        May sleep the sleep of blessed things,
            The blood too bright, the brow accurst.

Edna St. Vincent Millay