The Aristocrat

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
The absurd generosity of plants
- he laughed - is unknown to us
Though some men would chance
To fancy themselves yet generous;
Consider that they do not toil or spin
And they give to any old passer-by
It is but a when and not a why
And disdain because of what is within?
Themselves; all in all, with no sieve
And yet how many continue to give?
Man would almost fancy it a sin
To give all of himself to but live;

They insinuate themselves, of course
- the reply - and why should they not
A generosity that is more like a force
Seems an is and not a sort of ought
But not all, I suppose, can be claimed
For the seed itself is often the food
Given to the worthy without mood
And so the plant cannot then be blamed
The worker is worth his wages they say
Toiling to build but themselves all day
Worthy is what such a creature is named
Where the love of the Good is the Way.

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