The Flowers

Kriloff’s Original Fables
In a rich room, the windows open to the weather, In porcelain pots, whose tracing was as gems,
Some handmade flowers, with living ones together,
Stood on their wiry stems,
Their bright heads nodding to the wind,
And showing all their beauties off, after their kind. A shower of rain began to drop,
The taffeta flowers to Jove their prayer address : ” Canst not the rain’s force stop ?
” And loudly next the rain abused in their distress. ” Great Jove !” they cry, “to the shower put an end : For whom can it befriend ?
And what on earth than rain is worse ?
It everywhere doth mud and puddles send,
And in the streets each passer-by doth curse.”
Jove, though, the foolish prayer would not accept,
And down again o’er all the shower swept. • The heat off kept,
It freshened all the air, and nature lived again,
Clothed in a greener tint beneath the rain. Within the window then the living flowers Put forth new beauties with the welcome showers,
Giving out odours fresh and sweet,
With petals opened wide the rain to greet. Meanwhile the handmade flowers, poor things, have
lost All beauty, and their luck
Is to be on the dust-heap tossed With other muck.
True talent never is by critics vexed
They cannot any of its beauties soil
But artificial flowers are perplexed
By rain, for them the showers spoil.

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