So did sour sadness permeate sweet June

When my perennial broke her promised turn;

No urgent prayers could placate sun or moon,

As barren earth lay choked with weeds I spurned.

What was the failure—water, wind or sun?

Or yet occult, by gods or fate denied?

What unseen hand marked now her time as done

And by cruel stroke did love and hope deride?

But yet the sun does rise, so too comes rain

And still the wind wends through the gardens green

Where blossoms bright dance ever much the same,

Though still upon my heart, bring no reprieve—

I often sit and muse upon that flower

And marvel at the strength of beauty’s power.