A delicate flower by a silver stream grew,
And it loved the dusk, the dawn and dew.
And it lived in the light of the sun as it shone,
Until one day it was trampled upon.
But it picked itself up, made its petals anew,
But over and over, got crushed by a shoe.
Each time it got up, it started to bristle,
Until one day, it turned into a thistle.
So mind how you step, and what you step upon,
Or you may find some gentleness gone
That you crushed out of a thing without any care,
And left instead, hate and bitterness there.