It never occurred to the clover to think of themselves as ordinary. That they never rose taller than the blades of grass in which they grew didn’t bother them at all. It didn’t trouble one of them that she was one of ten thousand similar blossoms, unnoticed by any but a few passersby, and most of them animals or children.
No, the clover knew the secret of contentment. And in the mornings, when the sun shone and the dew dazzled around them, their contentment gave way to joy. And their joy gave way to song. And they reveled in the wonder of their being, here, on earth, beneath the billowing trees and wide blue skies.