O what, and whence am I, 'mid damps and dust,
And darkness, into sudden being thrust?
What was I yesterday? and what will be,
Perchance, to-morrow, seen or heard of me?
Poor, lone, unfriended, ignorant, forlorn,
To bear the new, full glory of the morn,
Beneath the garden wall I stand aside,
With all before me, beauty, show, and pride.
Ah! why did nature shoot me up to light,
A thing unfit for use--unfit for sight;
Less like her work, than like a piece of art,
Whirled out and trimmed exact in every part?
Unlike the graceful shrub and flexile vine,
No fruit, nor branch, nor leaf, nor bud is mine.
No humming-bird, nor butterfly, nor bee
Will come to cheer, caress or flatter me.
No beauteous flower adorns my humble head,
No spicy odors on the air I shed;
But here I 'm stationed in my sober suit,
With only top and stem--I 've scarce a root.
Untaught of my beginning and my end,
I know not whence I sprang, or where I tend;
Yet, I will wait and trust, and ne'er presume
To question JUSTICE--I, a frail Mushroom!