A shriveled bloom without scent
Overlooked in a book I see;
My spirit's by one way or another previously dashing
What's more, loads up with a peculiar reverie.Where did it blossom? In which spring? When?
Did it blossom long? Who picked it at that point?
By more abnormal's hand or by a companion?
Who put it here and to what end?In memory of delicate trysting
Or then again else of portentous splitting day?
Or then again else maybe a solitary walk thoughtful
In quiet fields and lush shade?Do he she despite everything live, I wonder?
Also, where presently is their little alcove?
Or on the other hand have they blurred, lost their radiance,
Like this little blossom right now?