Another flower withered today

Observe them falter every which way

Not loved enough or yet too much

Once beauty, smooth, now coarsely rough

What’s dead is still, framed there and then

Beheld forever by one man

As that which was, which blossomed, full

Mildew on leaves, o’er my eyes: wool

And all senses’ remembrances are stirred

By fragrance, beauty, your treacherous mirth

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