My poor, poor vanity

A blooming rose preoccupied

With times when it will wilt

Between the days of petals new and petals turned to silt

A rose that thinks of brown-tinged leaves

And disillusioned men

Who picked the flower in youthful hour

It can't portray again

A rose longing for frost and storm

To come at Beauty's height

And pull it from its very roots

Before day turns to night,

Is an unhappy rose indeed.