I know some will seek sometime to pluck
The little Iceland flower I yet tend
That springs up strong and fair in
The stony-soiled Hill Country
And I cannot stop the hands from taking that bloom
Just as no hand could stop me
Plucking fruit from the brown bough and
Eating of its juicy flesh
Or planting seed to grow anew
But I can hope the hands that take it up in time
Are kind
And relish in the beauty of the bloom
Seeing that it has what it needs
If they will not let the dryad free
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