Of Flowers We Sing

Of flowers we sing, of bud and shoot,
   Of all that strives toward the light,
Forgetful of the questing root
   Entombed within unyielding night.

Who sings for worm at endless toil?
   For tuber bunkered in the clay?
For blind life inching through the soil
   As poets praise a cherry spray?

The cut bough sickens— soon to die,
   It mourns its anchor in the dark;
Each stately branch that blots the sky
   Is twinned to one bereft of bark.

So saint and sinner share the seed
   Of root and stem, of wrong and right.
Sing as you will, yet each must feed:
   Who sings of light must sing of night.