Did you hear about the rose that grew, from a crack in the concrete? Proving nature's law is wrong it, learned to walk with out having feet. Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams, it learned to breathe fresh air. Long live the rose that grew from concrete, when no one else ever cared.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways, Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love; A violet by a mossy stone, Half hidden from the eye! -Fair as a star, when only one, Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know, When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me!

Yet, haply, in some lull of life, Some Truce of God which breaks its strife. The worlding's eyes shall gather dew, Dreaming in throngful city ways, Of winter joys his boyhood knew; And dear and early friends- the few, Who yet remain- shall pause to view, These Flemish pictures of old days; Sit with me by the homestead hearth, And stretch the hands of memory forth, To warm them at the wood-fire's blaze! And thanks untraced to lips unknown, Shall greet me like the odors blown, From unseen meadows newly mown, Or lilies floating in some pond, Wood-fringed, the wayside gaze beyond; The traveller owns the grateful sense, Of sweetness near, he knows not whence, And, pausing, takes with forehead bare, The benediction of the air.