The RhodoraOn being asked, whence is the flower.
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals fallen in the pool
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made for seeing,
Then beauty is its own excuse for Being;
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask; I never knew;
But in my simple ignorance suppose
The self-same power that brought me there, brought you.
So much for yet another spot of teeming wild biodiversity, succumbing to the Human death wish.
Do we have to screw* up every square inch of the planet and make it "useful"??? He asks incredulously...Is this a race? Are we going to destroy the planet first, or just accelerate our own demise?
I guess that beauty isn't a good enough excuse for being.
*Those who would have read this post earlier would have found a more emphatic and relevant term in place of "screw"...a good reason to read my posts promptly!