Now, whereas a single daisy has no smell and seems a common,
unimportant thing, a bunch of several hundred holds all the perfume of
the spring. No flowers lie closer to the soil or bring the smell of
earth more sweetly to the mind; upon the lips and cheeks they are as
soft as a kitten's fur, and lie against the skin closer than tired
eyelids. They are the common people of the flower world, yet have, in
virtue of that fact, the beauty and simplicity of the common people.
They own a subdued and unostentatious strength, are humble and
ignored, are walked upon, unnoticed, rarely thought about and never
praised; they are cut off in early youth by mowing machines; yet their
pain in fading is unreported, their little sufferings unsung. They
cling to earth, and never aspire to climb, but they hold the sweetest
dew and nurse the tiniest little winds imaginable. Their patience is
divine. They are proud to be the carpet for all walking, running
things, and in their universal service is their strength. The rain
stays longer with them than with grander flowers, and the best
sunlight goes to sleep among them in great pools of fragrant and
delicious heat.
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