Thoughts on this much appreciated?

Dandelions



When I was still young

I often sided with the weeds;

watched their untamed life,

blow firm in the breeze;

stronger, but less appreciated

than your precious leaves.



I took my strolls along the matted grass

trampled by work-boots into the mud;

and followed your obligatory path,

Sunbathed to frothy suds.



And those dandelions I picked for you,

I always liked them better in seed.

Many were blown along the way,

blown away on childish need.



They were the promise indeed

that Spring had begun.

And those blocks of ice,

would melt away by the sun,

and that clearing in the yard

would allow me to see-



I tried to chase you one day,

call out your name,

but my voice fell flat

in the pouring rain.



I tripped and fell

and sobbed in vain.

But mother never scolded

my earthly stains.



Or yours.



Today I still pick dandelions,

because they're ample, they're free;

they are the life of your hated weeds,

And all of them curse your name.

Thoughts on this much appreciated?
You've got some good stuff in here. I think you need to find some fresher language in places. Things like the first line do not engage the reader and you should think about the reader and getting their interest up so they want to read further. In some places you move a bit into abstraction (telling, not showing) and I think you just need to go back and rethink those lines or phrases. All in all, a good effort.
Reply:O why should the spirit of mortal be proud!

Like a fast flitting meteor, a fast flying cloud,

A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave --

He passes from life to his rest in the grave.



The leaves of the oak and the willows shall fade,

Be scattered around, and together be laid;

And the young and the old, and the low and the high,

Shall moulder to dust, and together shall lie.



The child that a mother attended and loved,

The mother that infant's affection that proved,

The husband that mother and infant that blest,

Each -- all are away to their dwelling of rest.



The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,

Shone beauty and pleasure -- her triumphs are by:

And the memory of those that beloved her and praised,

Are alike from the minds of the living erased.



The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,

The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,

The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,

Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.



The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,

The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep,

The beggar that wandered in search of his bread,

Have faded away like the grass that we tread.



The saint that enjoyed the communion of Heaven,

The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven,

The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,

Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.



So the multitude goes -- like the flower and the weed

That wither away to let others succeed;

So the multitude comes -- even those we behold,

To repeat every tale that hath often been told.

For we are the same things that our fathers have been,

We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,

We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun,

And we run the same course that our fathers have run.



The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think,

From the death we are shrinking from they too would shrink,

To the life we are clinging to they too would cling --

But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing.



They loved -- but their story we cannot unfold;

They scorned -- but the heart of the haughty is cold;

They grieved -- but no wail from their slumbers may come;

They joyed -- but the voice of their gladness is dumb.



They died -- aye, they died! and we, things that are now,

Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,

Who make in their dwellings a transient abode,

Meet the change they met on their pilgrimage road.



Yea, hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain,

Are mingled together like sunshine and rain;

And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge,

Still follow each other like surge upon surge.



'Tis the twink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath,

From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,

From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud --

O why should the spirit of mortal be proud!