My grief is told of yonder meadows green
how far, as they appear - from crater deep,
shriveled of stream which perfused this ravine
how can I weep - as none is left to seep.

No petal bloom unfurls, nor ruby shine
for withered wrought the scalding cupid sun,
begot but mine and left a hollow shrine
wherein its done, was fought and sorrow won.

I droop like snowdrops within summers haze
and drift away in hope of Floras' Spring.
To mourn is daze - mislaid in trepid maze,
alike ivy that wring, I tie like string.

The distant lush is all but spectres of lime
yet may I find, the greener grass, with time