Bouncing Bet - A poem by Rose Morgan

Bouncing-Bet.

When that I see thee by the dusty road,
Or where some kindly householder has spared
The sprawling matted growth that thou hast dared.
To trail along the skirts of his abode,
When that I see thee thus, chance-sprung, wind-
sowed,
A wildling waif for whom no one has cared,
My eyes are filled, thinking thou hast fared
As other prophets to whom much is owed.
For when the winged scourge swept o'er our land,
Leaving all black, laying all green things low,
Thy pale sweet blossoms scatheless it passed by^__
Through thee God let our fathers understand^__
Unloved and useless, still 'twas thine to show
A modest face undaunted to the sky.

^__Rose Morgan.