Rose and Root

The rose aloft in sunny air,   Beloved alike by bird and bee, Takes for the dark Root little care   That toils below it ceaselessly. I put my question to the flower:   “Pride of the Summer, garden queen, Why livest thou thy little hour?”   And the Rose answered, “I am seen.” I put my question to the Root.   “I mine the earth content,” it said, “A hidden miner underfoot:   I know a Rose is overhead.”