Delicate and sweet like a desert flower,
Though daring, not without her whetted thorns.
Thriving come sun, withstanding come thunder
Storm. Noon, midsummer, the brazen sun burns
In wintertime she doth not wilt in vain
Come spring, she grows anew, vivid, en volume.
Simply glimpse her colour, to ascertain
Her beauty, Inspire once her scented plume
And fall faint, where soon your love will fester.
The virtuous alone may take her a prize,
Though she demands respect from her keeper;
If un-watered, her ebb will be her guise.
But, I prefer her out in the garden,
Thus, the bees and the birds are beholden.