Look at the grass, sucked by the seed from dust
Whose blood is the spring rain, whose food the sun
Whose life is the scythe takes ere the sorrels rust,
Whose stalk is chaff before winter's done.
Even the grass its happy moment has
In May, when glistening buttercups make gold;
The exulting millions of the meadow grass
Give out green thanksgiving from the mould.
Even the blade that has not even a blossom
Creates a mind, its joy's persistent soul
Is a warm spirit on the old earth's bosom
When April's fire has dwindled to a coal;
The spirit of the grasses' joy makes fair
The winter fields when even the wind goes bare.
John Masefield (1878 - 1967)