I began as a sprouting blade of grass like Whitman said.
And among the millions of green leaves, I am.

Ground, oh found me dead, rooted where I stay,
I once dreamt to uproot and walk away.
Was I foolish in those days, and in my thoughts;
To dream of Life while Death lovingly held my hand?

Life's short part and Death's long verse,
And I, as they act their roles upon the stage my soul,
Weep for their sense to be sung.