I say to you: do not pull up the weeds.
If you begin, it is a lifelong task
As with each stem and bud you find and grasp
Three more will seem to spring up from its seeds.
Again, I say: don’t bother with the weeds.
If they offend, give them some other name;
A “wild rose,” although it smells the same
Will sound to itching ears most soft and sweet.
I warn you, friend, to not worry the weeds.
The gayest gardener, for now, is the one
Who with mulch and manure blots out the sun
And, by this guise of care, carelessly leaves
The once-good soil to the work of weeds
Which, rotting the roots of fruit, will freely feast.