From the greenest field I picked an ugly flower.
For who but me would show it love has power?
It spends a week inside,
In a vase for which it vied,
And now it wonders why it hadn't tried
to it's beauty more abide.
For this it would have cried,
If my ugly flower hadn't died.
For who but me would show it love has power?
It spends a week inside,
In a vase for which it vied,
And now it wonders why it hadn't tried
to it's beauty more abide.
For this it would have cried,
If my ugly flower hadn't died.
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