In a callous infirmary corner somewhere,
'Neath the unsavory tones and bouquets of the New Year,
Near a bed-side window sill,
Slowly wilts a flower whose
Countenance has lost her amber;
Her essence is arid,
As the clay below her roots.
She rests in a pot -- within four walls,
And yearns for the day
When this spell will wither quickly a-way;
Then, only will Adam's ale no longer
Trickle and trace from her weary, pale petals.
Yet, as a flower, her days fall to nights
Where her plight for a salubrious spring together
Appears remote and unanswered in ethereal dreams;
For her sun only lay sickly between
Sodden sheets and a bed full of clouds.
His somber rays shower lightly upon his delicate flower.
No longer illuminate their valleys with Hope;
Only, now, they overshadow their desert with misery!
Still, this flower and her sun
Forever have a natural union,
Like Darby and Joan of old:
Their passion for each other is unceasing
During any season, including
His or Her winter.