Are flowers in the field any less than precious stones? Yes, they whither now, or are crushed underfoot—but should I who pluck a daisy not feel I’d grasped a diamond? Should I who walk upon the tender grass covet a Persian rug? Should I, who has the azure heaven for a dome, covet some smaller room beneath? And when clear night unveils her many stars, who can lay claim to one of these? Are not all mine and of more worth than any pebble I may hold?
The flowers, precious in my eyes,
offer their colors as a prize
to those who yet may realize
their wastefulness is truly wise.
Tale Told 