As Blades of Grass

We are but grass,
That struggling grows
With shallow roots
In sterile sand.
Each one a blade,
Dissimilar yet like,
And those who grow the larger
Push the others to one side,
Where, overshadowed, soon they die.
And yet we root in common sand,
And spread our seed in .common sand,
And drink alike of common rain,
And share with all the common sun,
And like the grass when
Comes the drought of faith and
Naught is there but
False sunshine of gold,
We yellow, and the spirit parched,
Grows feeble; but the roots
Persist in common sand.
And when the reaper comes
To mow us down, the taller
Grasses sway and dodge,
But all are mown impartially
And fall, and of the stubs we
Leave, who can tell which
Were strong and succulent,
And which the sour and weak?
And still the roots remain
And grow again in common sand,
And new blades rising toward the sun,
Believe their day the best of all,
And boast their color greener yet
Than all who came before,
And talk of arts and sciences,
And bigger wars, and change of Gods,
And birth and earth and girth control,
And all such geocentric stuffs,
But still they are but blades of grass,
And have their roots in common sand,
With all the roots of lesser breeds,
And so like grass, one duty and but one
Alone that appertains to man,
To cover earth and sow his seed,
And sink his roots in common sand.

-M. H. Walker