Ллойд Миффлин (Lloyd Mifflin)

To the Milkweed

NONE call thee flower!.. I will not so malign
The satin softness of thy plumed seed,
Nor so profane thee as to call thee weed,
Thou tuft of ermine down, fit to entwine
About a queen; or, fitter still, to line
The nest of birds of strange exotic breed.
The orient cunning, and the somnolent speed
Of looms of dusky Ind weave not so fine
A gossamer . . . Ah me! could he who sings,
On such adventurous and aerial wings
Far over lands and undiscovered seas
Waft the dark seeds of his imaginings,
That, flowering, men might say, Lo! look on these
Wild Weeds of Song--not all ungracious things!

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