I can't tell whether they eclipse because the Sun is jealous of your radiance or if they eclipse because the Moon wants to be the only one able to glare at you.

How fair you are; still never fair to us.

Would you wilt, my Orchid?
Wilt by the waters of ignorance,
by the heat of disparage?

Would you wilt, my Orchid?
Wilt by your stubborn defiance,
by your planted loathing?

Wilt you may, my Orchid,
but in my hands.
Wilt in palms that scurry
to save you.

Wilt you may, my Orchid,
but leave your roots.
Wilt with trace of hope
to save me.

Would you wilt, my Orchid,
by a common rose’s grace?
Would you wilt, my Orchid,
when my heaven is your face?