Perhaps this daffodil so plain and lithe
Bent forth double in a secluded steppe
Will be forgotten and forseen as a useless weed
Just as your eyes glaze by mine
In a lamenting wave.
And perhaps, perhaps the sages
Of the East Plain
Of the Fertile Crescent, will revel in this anomaly
And light the brushfire
That will forget
That this daffodil
Could have been a weed.