The Wild Flower There is no sweeter place than the wild flower;

Its grace runs through the air

And dances with the dewdrops,

Brushes the shimmering wings

Of the dewdrop spider’s web;

It gives no thought of time

Or purpose at all, but simply

Blossoms here, believes and spreads,

Airy hues of bright forget-me-nots,

And starlike imprints of the morning sun.

An elegance unmeasured,

Lost yet present in the wilderness of blooming.

It is beauty that needs no beholder.

• John Gould Fletcher