The flower at my altar

Today the flower seems dusty

Because of constant criticism 

With lack of love; but it musters

Its power of being not new to such

Happenings of the universe: it turns

Its head in the wind, spring time is far:

In the summer dust it need not search

For the sun. The flower, not of beauty, 

Not of things sublime. A stately white

And pink and common it adorns

My altar.