The Poverty Weed
O the poverty weed is so shabby and poor
That she seems to disfigure the land,
The russet clad waif of the desolate moor
She buries her face in the sand.
Her threadbare old mantle all faded and frayed
What beauty can ever adorn?
As she cowers in the background this shy desert maid
So lowly, despised and forlorn.
But over that moorland in splashes of gold
Like sunbeams enriching the gloom,
What visions of loveliness seem to unfold
When the poverty weed is in bloom!
Aglow are those hillsides once barren and lone
And golden those patches of green,
When this poor floral outcast comes into her own
And the blossoms all bow to their queen.