THE GRASS

The grass is growing under foot, A carpet green and bright, The tender blades do whisper low, A secret of delight.

Beneath the azure of the sky, Each blade a life of joy, They tell of spring’s returning warmth, Of Nature’s ceaseless ploy.

Oh footstep kind and gentle, Tread softly on their bed, For every blade that bends and bows, Is living, not just dead.

• Lydia Maria Child