The Sunflower.

Down by the moss and the rustling sedge,
With the dew-bright morning scare begun.
She grew on the water's trembling edge,
With her petals flattened against the sun.
And her life's great urge strove sunward there
As she swayed alone in the sweet still air.

The human heart is a flower that blows
By a silent lake's unsounded floor;
And the anxious world is a oream that goes
On the wind that wanders the trackless shore.
For the senseless heart and the flower are one
As they strive, unknowingly, towards the sun.

—I. R. M.