 Weed or Flower? by Helen Leah Reid. Read for Libby Rocks.org by Algie Pug. "'Tis but a common thing,' one coldly said. Nay, call it not a flower, this little weed. If plucky it, I kill it, root and seed. Better the world were if it lay there and dead." "'Ah, rather let it live,' a second cried. And it may be, and yet it has its use. Here in its healy essence is excuse for blooming lies, and here it's only pride. Destroy it not, another pled, behold this tapering leaf, this soft and tender green. Upon my canvas it shall bloom, serene, this tiny, chalice fleck of living gold.' Then one bent over it. "'Ah, floweret bright, for only flowers in this garden grow. His earth, his sunshine, made thee, or thee blow his winds, frail thing. In thee he shows his might.' End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Weed or Flower? by Helen Leah Reid. Read for Libby Rocks.org by Bruce Kachok. "'Is but a common thing,' one coldly said. Nay, call it not a flower, this little weed. If plucky it, I kill it, root and seed. Better the world were if it lay there and dead. Ah, rather let it live,' a second cried. "'Weed it may be, and yet it has its use. Here in its healy essence is excuse for blooming lies, and here it's only pride. Destroy it not,' another plaid, behold this tapering leaf, this soft and tender green. Upon my canvas it shall bloom serene, this tiny, chalice fleck of living gold. Then one bent over it. Ah, floweret bright, for only flowers in this garden grow. His earth, his sunshine, made thee, or thee blow his winds, frail thing. In thee he shows his might!' And a poem. This recording is in the public domain. Weed or Flower? by Helen Leah Reid. Read for Libby Rocks.org by Caitlin Buckley. "'Tis but a common thing,' one coldly said. Nay, call it not a flower, this little weed. If plucky it, I kill it, root and seed. Better the world were if it lay there and dead. Ah, rather let it live,' a second cried. "'Weed it may be, and yet it has its use. Here in its healing essence is excuse for blooming lies, and here it's only pride. Destroy it not another plaid, behold this tapering leaf, this soft and tender green. Upon my canvas it shall bloom serene, this tiny, chalice fleck of living gold. Then one bent over it. Ah, floweret bright, for only flowers in this garden grow. His earth, his sunshine, made thee, or thee blow his winds, frail thing. In thee he shows his might.' End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Weed or Flower by Helen Leah Reid. Read for Libby Rocks.org by Chad Horner from Liverpool. "'Tis but a common thing,' one coldly said. Nay, call it not a flower, this little weed. If plucky it, I kill it, root and seed. Better the world were if it lay there and dead. Ah, rather let it live,' a second cried. "'Weed it may be, and yet it has its use. Here in its hailing essence its excuse. For blooming lies on here its only pride. Destroy it not another plaid, behold this tapering leaf, this soft and tender green. Upon my canvas it shall bloom serene, this tiny, chalice fleck of living gold. Then one bent over it. Ah, floweret bright, for only flowers in this garden grow. His earth, his sunshine, made thee, o'er thee blow. His winds, frail thing, in thee he shows his might. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Weed or Flower by Helen Leah Reid. Read for Libby Rocks.org by David Lawrence. "'Tis but a common thing,' one coldly said. Nay, call it not a flower, this little weed. If plucking it, I kill it, root and seed. Better the world were, if it lay there dead. Ah, rather let it live,' a second cried. Weed it may be, and yet it has its use. Here in its hailing essence its excuse. For blooming lies, and here its only pride. Destroy it not another plaid, behold this tapering leaf, this soft and tender green. In my canvas it shall bloom serene, this tiny chalice, fleck of living gold. Then one bent over it. Ah, floweret bright, for only flowers in this garden grow. His earth, his sunshine, made thee, o'er thee blow. His winds, frail thing, in thee he shows his might. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Weed or Flower by Helen Leah Reed. Red for LibriVox.org by Frank Duncan. "'Tis but a common thing,' one coldly said. Nay, call it not a flower, this little weed. If plucking it, I kill it, root and seed. Better the world were, if it lay there dead. Ah, rather let it live,' a second cried. Weed it may be, and yet it has its use. Here in its healing essence its excuse. For blooming lies, and here its only pride. Destroy it not another plaid, behold this tapering leaf, this soft and tender green. Upon my canvas it shall bloom serene, this tiny chalice, fleck of living gold. When one bent over it, ah, flowered bright, for only flowers in this garden grow. His earth, his sunshine, made thee, o'er thee blow. His winds, frail thing, in thee he shows his might. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Weed or Flower by Helen Leah Reed. Read for LibraVox.org by Francesca Remick. 25th of September, 2019, Berlin. Tis but a common thing, one coldly said. Nay, call it not a flower, this little weed. If plucking it, I kill it, root and seed. Better the world were, if it lay there dead. Ah, rather let it live, a second cried. Weed it may be, and yet it has its use. Here in its healing essence its excuse, for blooming lies, and here its only pride. Destroy it not another plaid, behold this tapering leaf, this soft and tender green. On my canvas it shall bloom serene, this tiny chalice fleck of living gold. Then one bent over it, ah, flower at bright, for only flowers in this garden grow. His earth, his sunshine, made thee, o'er thee blow. His winds, frail thing, in thee he shows his might. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Weed or Flower by Helen Leah Reed. Read for LibriVox.org by Florence Short. Tis but a common thing, one coldly said. Nay, call it not a flower, this little weed. If plucking it, I kill it, root and seed. Better the world were, if it lay there dead, ah, rather let it live, a second cried. Weed it may be, and yet it has its use. Here in its healing essence its excuse, for blooming lies, and here its only pride. Destroy it not another plaid, behold this tapering leaf. This soft and tender green, upon my canvas it shall bloom serene. This tiny chalice fleck of living gold. Then one bent over it, ah, flower at bright, for only flowers in this garden grow. His earth, his sunshine, made thee, o'er thee blow. His winds, frail thing, in thee he shows his might. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Weed or Flower by Helen Leah Reed. Read for LibriVox.org by Garth Burton. Tis but a common thing, one coldly said. Nay, call it not a flower, this little weed. If plucking it, I kill it, root and seed. Better the world were, if it lay there dead, ah, rather let it live. A second cried, weed it may be, and yet it has its use. Here, in its healing essence, its excuse for blooming lies, and here its only pride. Destroy it not another plaid, behold this tapering leaf. This soft and tender green, upon my canvas it shall bloom serene. This tiny chalice fleck of living gold. Then one bent over it. Ah, flower it bright, for only flowers in this garden grow. His earth, his sunshine, made thee, o'er thee blow. His winds, frail thing, in thee he shows his might. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Weed or Flower by Helen Leah Reed. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Scott Cheltenham, England. GrahamScottAudio.com Tis but a common thing, one coldly said. Nay, call it not a flower, this little weed. If plucking it, I kill it, root and seed. Better the world were, if it lay there dead. Ah, rather let it live. A second cried. Weed it may be, and yet it has its use. Here in its healing essence its excuse for blooming lies, and here its only pride. Destroy it not, another plaid. Behold this tapering leaf, this soft and tender green. Upon my canvas it shall bloom serene. This tiny chalice fleck of living gold. Then one bent over it. Ah, flower it bright, for only flowers in this garden grow. His earth, his sunshine, made thee, all thee blow his winds frail thing. In thee he shows his might. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Weed or Flower by Helen Leah Reed. Read for LibriVox.org by Leanne Howlett. Tis but a common thing, one coldly said. Nay, call it not a flower, this little weed. If plucking it, I kill it, root and seed. Better the world were, if it lay there dead. Ah, rather let it live. A second cried. Weed it may be, and yet it has its use. Here in its healing essence its excuse for blooming lies, and here its only pride. Destroy it not, another pled. Behold this tapering leaf, this soft and tender green. Upon my canvas it shall bloom serene. This tiny chalice fleck of living gold. Then one bent over it. Ah, flower it bright, for only flowers in this garden grow. His earth, his sunshine made thee, Or thee blow his winds frail thing. In thee he shows his might. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Weed or Flower by Helen Leah Reed. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. Tis but a common thing, one coldly said. Nay, call it not a flower, this little weed. If plucking it, I kill it, root and seed. Better the world were if it lay there dead. Ah, rather let it live. A second cried. Weed it may be, and yet it has its use. Here in its healing essence its excuse for blooming lies, and here its only pride. Destroy it not, another pled. Behold this tapering leaf, this soft and tender green. Upon my canvas it shall bloom serene. This tiny chalice fleck of living gold. Then one bent over it. Ah, flower bright, for only flowers in this garden grow. His earth, his sunshine made thee, Or thee blow his winds frail thing. In thee he shows his might. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.