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.