Then name it.
Well, the flowers of the field are frail things.

Pluck one, and you have in your hand the frailest of things.

But reach through the charm of colour and the tale of its beneficence in frailty to the poetry of the flower, and secret of the myriad stars will fail to tell you more than does that poetry of your little flower.

Lord Feltre, at the heels of St.
Francis, agrees in that.
Well, then, much so with the flowers of the two hands and feet.

We do homage to those ungathered, and reserve our supremacy; the gathered, no longer courted, are the test of men.