I haven’t the slightest clue
Why a clover, running vast and tall
As the large oak is to me, as it is to an ant
Why the four-frond need not be seen
But to be as grand as gold
A lucky little forest undergrowth
A measly being with a great purpose
And a lesson to behold
When it leans upon the heel of your boot
Or settles near your clambake quilt
Even unnoticed
It lives merrily, dancing with an extra limb
Though no one will look down to see
It holds its gaiety in quietude; in still