I have never written about you                                          
The bond we share,
The chance to be one, which I blew.
You mend us and tried to clear the air,
But I already accepted the fall which I knew.
I am responsible for every tear, I swear.
You were right and always true.
I regret but, to accept this in past, I scare.

Roses, their sharp spines being gone,
Not royal in their smells alone,
  But in their hue;
Maiden pinks, of odour faint,
Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint,
  And sweet thyme true;

Primrose, firstborn child of Ver;
Merry springtime’s harbinger,
  With her bells dim;
Oxlips in their cradles growing,
Marigolds on death-beds blowing,
  Larks’-heels trim;

All dear Nature’s children sweet
Lie ‘fore bride and bridegroom’s feet,
  Blessing their sense!
Not an angel of the air,
Bird melodious or bird fair,
  Be absent hence!

The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor
The boding raven, nor chough ****,
  Nor chattering pye,
May on our bride-house perch or sing,
Or with them any discord bring,
  But from it fly!

There are some homes,
Which feels more at home than our home.
People, there are rude but true.
It feels safe to be there rather than roam.
They understand because they themselves have gone through.
But they actually value you for being you.
That's the real home where you find your true construe.