The Flower-School

When storm-clouds rumble in the sky and June showers come down.
The moist east wind comes marching over the heath to blow its
bagpipes among the bamboos.
Then crowds of flowers come out of a sudden, from nobody knows
where, and dance upon the grass in wild glee.
Mother, I really think the flowers go to school underground.
They do their lessons with doors shut, and if they want to
come out to play before it is time, their master makes them stand
in a corner.
When the rain come they have their holidays.
Branches clash together in the forest, and the leaves rustle
in the wild wind, the thunder-clouds clap their giant hands and the
flower children rush out in dresses of pink and yellow and white.
Do you know, mother, their home is in the sky, where the stars
are.
Haven't you see how eager they are to get there? Don't you
know why they are in such a hurry?
Of course, I can guess to whom they raise their arms; they
have their mother as I have my own.

by Rabindranath Tagore

Comments (1)

I can only assume those who voted 6 didn't understand this- it's not for Junior High School. Maybe if the writer had been a negro it might have helped. Full of bitter irony but still with the vestiges of humor. Lord knows what the ending means but it is clear that the well meaning liberals have no idea what kind of Pandora's box they are awakening when they speak of racial integration.