Concerning a
hyacinth
To – – –
You wondrous
plant whose match in colour,
In sheen, allure
I nowhere see,
In Flora’s realm
I find no other
Whose beauty so
enraptures me:
Your petals
Nature is suffusing,
In art, in
splendour sets alight;
A subtle
balsam-scent diffusing,
You bring me
pleasure and delight.
My tender care
shall never fail you,
You get to
breathe a milder air,
No sudden squall
shall e’er assail you,
No heat and cold
shall you impair.
A gentle breeze
shall worries banish,
And infiltrate
your every pore,
And when from
warmth you greatly languish
A cooling tide
shall you restore.
But when at last,
all blooms displaying,
You grace my hut
in full allure,
The cruel law of
change obeying,
You fade and die
and are no more.
You soon forget my
pleasant duty,
And tire of all
my watchful guard,
Conceal in meagre
dust your beauty,
Are you
ungrateful, then, and hard?
But shall I
censure this poor flower,
Accuse a being
frail as she,
Whose lot’s to
alter by the hour,
She has to be
what she must be.
She is as grass,
she has to perish,
I bear no grudge
because of this.
And cold grows
too a heart I cherish
It has to be the
way it is.
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