By: Henry David Thoreau
I am a parcel of vain strivings tied
By a chance bond togehter,
Dangling this way and that, their links
Were made so loose and wide
For milder weather.
A bunch of violets without their roots,
And sorrel intermixed,
Encircled by a wisp of straw
Once coiled about their shoots,
By which I'm fixed.
A nosegay which Time clutched from out
Those fare Elysian fields,
With weeds and broken stems, in haste,
Doth make the rabble rout
The day he yields.
And here I bloom for a short hour unseen
drinking my juices up,
with no root in the land
to keep my branches green
in a bare cup
some tender buds were left upom my stem
in mimicry of life
but ah! the children will not know
till time has withered them
with which they're rife.
But now I see I was not plucked for naught
and after in life's case
of glass set while I might survive
but by a kind hand brought
to as strange place
that stock thus thinned will soon redeem its hours
and by another year
such as God knows, with freer air
more fruits and fairer flowers
while I droop here.