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
