Weeds

Poor, homely, unloved things beside the way,
That strive in voiceless ignominy, still
Undaunted though downtrodden, to fulfill
Your appointed purpose! Patient the long day
Ye take the buffetings of scornful clay,
Sustained by that small portion of God's dew
Which thick-strewn dust permits to fall on you.
And live where finer herbs must wilt away.
Have ye too, dreams of better things to be?
Of worlds in which the crooked shall be straight,
Where all that are in bondage shall be free,
And lifted up all those of low estate?
Where, to the thought that knows the potent seeds,
Weeds shall be e'en as flowers, flowers as weeds.