POD OF THE MILKWEED
— Robert Frost
Calling all butterflies from every race
From source unknown but no special place
They ever will return to all their lives,
Because unlike the bees they have no hives
The milkweed brings up to my very door
The theme of wanton waste in peace and war
As it has never been to me before.
And so it seems a flower’s coming out
That should if not be talked then sung about.
The countless wings that from the infinite
Make such a noiseless tumult over it
Do no doubt with their color compensate
For what the drab weed lacks of the ornate.