The Flower's Lesson by Louisa May Alcott — Read

There grew a fragrant rose-tree where the brook flows, / With two little tender buds, and one full rose; / When the sun went down to his bed in the west, / The little buds leaned on the rose-mother's breast, / While the bright eyed stars their long watch kept, / And the flowers of the valley in their green cradles slept; / Then silently in odors they communed with each other, / The two little buds on the bosom of their mother. / "O sister," said the little one, as she gazed at the sky, / "I wish that the Dew Elves, as they wander lightly by, / Would bring me a star; for they never grow dim, / And the Father does not need them to burn round him. / The shining drops of dew the Elves bring each day / And place in my bosom, so soon pass away; / But a star would glitter brightly through the long summer hours, / And I should be fairer than all my sister flowers. / That were better far than the dew-drops that fall / On the high and the low, and come alike to all. / I would be fair and stately, with a bright star to shine / And give a queenly air to this crimson robe of mine. " / And proudly she cried, "These fire-flies shall be / My jewels, since the stars can never come to me."

Just then a tiny dew-drop that hung o'er the dell / On the breast of the bud like a soft star fell; / But impatiently she flung it away from her leaf, / And it fell on her mother like a tear of grief, / While she folded to her breast, with wilful pride, / A glittering fire-fly that hung by her side. / "Heed," said the mother rose, "daughter mine, / Why shouldst thou seek for beauty not thine? / The Father hath made thee what thou now art; / And what he most loveth is a sweet, pure heart. / Then why dost thou take with such discontent / The loving gift which he to thee hath sent? / For the cool fresh dew will render thee far / More lovely and sweet than the brightest star; / They were made for Heaven, and can never come to shine / Like the fire-fly thou hast in that foolish breast of thine. / O my foolish little bud, do listen to thy mother; / Care only for true beauty, and seek for no other. / There will be grief and trouble in that wilful little heart; / Unfold thy leaves, my daughter, and let the fly depart. " / But the proud little bud would have her own will, / And folded the fire-fly more closely still; / Till the struggling insect tore open the vest / Of purple and green, that covered her breast.