Every flower must grow through some dirt
Such as the struggle of life knows notoriously
When whisks of winds cloud the half moon
Such tepid swirling of gases are heated
An overhead sun burning so gloriously
All at once in a mid-summertime dream
All attention is drawn or so it seems
Pushes its fragile canopy towards the sky
Escaping from its confines working laboriously
Until at last with as much proper notice taken
Very rare and beautified can not be mistaken
Comes a pleasure earned so meritoriously
And a feeling of joy shared so victoriously