When I consider the garden in bloom,
I often pick a single flower to take
and put in the shade of my sullen room,
for perhaps a bit happier the room to make.

Lodged in languid emptiness it stares
from it’s protective vase on the windowsill
and secretly I wish it’s fares
to be less than mine, mine greater still.

But sooner, rather than later,
the flower withers, slowly, surely,
and the darkness seems to be something greater,
and I wish for the sun to shine, ever purely.

Tis not the flowers of the garden that bring
the birds in the sunshine of morn’ to sing.