“Es war ein perfekter Garten, voller Unkraut.”
Then, should I reclog this wilting bower,
For shame of nothingness sways the flower;
An ink-spilt contempt veins the ember’s fuse,
That no garden e’er blew such gaudy ruse.
Still, by some shunt weed about this field o’erlooked
Should sprout like Snowdrops as Earth’s foreign crooks
And stand anomalous by th’surmised foot,
That tramped its neighbour by its guilt-borne root.
But, some plots grow and by ages deed
Ne’er a Catchfly to produce from seed;
Or a Bishop, a Blanket, or a Foxglove—
Who, by her siren’s song, assays above
This incorrigible bouquet of wilt and wane,
That on dead leaves no splendors rest,
Save, by its cloaking tinge and green-sleeve fame,
To survive the winter in the hornet’s nest.
Yet, by a coarse and dubious restraint,
Should grow within like a rough formed jewel,
Without, against this troublesome stain,
Which repeats and stutters to no avail;
Then, should I reclog the wilting bower,
Or with a plow dismiss its flower;
Should I endure this devolving deluge,
Or whisk ‘way what weed’d dreams have wax’d to lose?