by Stephen Crane
The trees in the garden rained flowers. Children ran there joyously. They gathered the flowers Each to himself. Now there were some Who gathered great heaps— Having opportunity and skill— Until, behold, only chance blossoms Remained for the feeble. Then a little spindling tutor Ran importantly to the father, crying: "Pray, come hither! "See this unjust thing in your garden!" But when the father had surveyed, He admonished the tutor: "Not so, small sage! "This thing is just. "For, look you, "Are not they who possess the flowers "Stronger, bolder, shrewder "Than they who have none? "Why should the strong— "The beautiful strong— "Why should they not have the flowers? Upon reflection, the tutor bowed to the ground. "My lord," he said, "The stars are displaced "By this towering wisdom."