We are like ferns grown in a patch of green
Hoping to catch a quick or careless eye
We glisten and gleam, but we are rarely seen
By the foolhardy wanderers passing by
Instead their gaze falls down upon the rose,
And as we ferns observe with bitterness,
The pink-petaled fiend does not carry our woes;
Its thorns are ignored, but its beauty addressed.
Examined close we ferns are quite the view
Yet we won’t draw travelers from their paths
Nor can our loathsome leaves and shadows of blue
Attract the sun’s smile or heaven’s sweet baths
Ferns yearn to be adored: by rain, sun, eyes
Yet soon us ferns will wilt under death throes;
The fern grown next to the pink rose always dies
True, a fern grows—but a fern is not a rose.