Weeds

We call them weeds, the while, with slender fingers,

Earth's wounds and scars they seek to cover o'er.

On sterile sands, where scarce the raindrop lingers,

They grow and blossom by the briny shore.

We call them weeds. Did we their form but study

We many a secret might unfolded find.

Each tiny plant fulfills its heaven taught mission

And bears the impress of immortal mind.

We call them weeds, the while their uses hidden

Might work a nation's weal, a nation's woe,

Send thro' each wasted frame the balm of healing

And cause the blood with youth's quick pulse to fiow.

Weeds, yet they hold in bonds the mighty ocean.

Their slender threads bind firm the sandy shore.

Navies may sink amid its wild commotion;

These humble weeds ne'er their work give o'er.

And who shall say the feeblest thought avails not

To bind the shifting sands upon life's beach?

Some heart may treasure what we've long forgot,

The faintest word some soul with power may reach.

-New Orleans Picayune