There is something lovely in loneliness.

But to be eighteen swaying is too: wind blowing
white curtains over pink sleeves, one hand
on the back of her head, the other sweeping
a satin basket of blush and violet petals,

and all this romance when, why?

for I should be one fine and proud wallflower:
              small and dark as a wallflower;

and stand there by that wall,

****-ing-honey-****-le-bliss at this stonewall,
while the rest, the rest of the world falls in love
        with white carnations,
—and that is so nice—

but all this romance, and there is something
lovely in being plucked. In seeing someonelse
get plucked: it plucks on the inside. If only

the rest of the world would take me! and not
fall in love without blanche carnations for me,

‘cause I would like to feel like something too.