All flesh is like grass,
and all its loveliness is like the flower of the field.
The grass withers,
the flower fades,
when the breath of the Lord blows upon it.
Surely the people are grass.
The grass withers, the flower fades,
but the word of our God
The prairie rose.
I promised you it would be blooming by Father's Day.
Columbine humbly bows her head.
Blue Penstemon. A praire wildflower.
Another penstemon. She's giving us her beautiful profile.
I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine:
There sleeps Titania some time of the night,
Lull'd in these flowers with dances and delight;
And there the snake throws her enamell'd skin,
Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in.
~William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream