The vacant land around our house
Is full of divers weeds;
The golden-rod, milk-weed, tall grass
Each with its countless seeds.
But - standing taller than the rest,
With lovely summer face,
Still standing - staunch - through winter storms,
Its lacy doily, now turned brown,
Has folded, like a cup,
To catch soft snowflakes as they fall
Like cotton piling up.
Oh, could our lives be like Queen’s Lace,
When youthful beauty’s fled?
Could we be chalices, to hold
The dainty “weed”, Queen’s Lace,
God’s love and grace instead?
Florence B. Taylor
1440 Gordon Road
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