Once when I saw a cripple 
Gasping slowly his last days with the white plague, 
Looking from hollow eyes, calling for air, 
Desperately gesturing with wasted hands 
In the dark and dust of a house down in a slum,
I said to myself 
I would rather have been a tall sunflower 
Living in a country garden 
Lifting a golden-brown face to the summer, 
Rain-washed and dew-misted,
Mixed with the poppies and ranking hollyhocks, 
And wonderingly watching night after night 
The clear silent processionals of stars.