So, so unlike the petals were his hair;
His tresses gamboled as no iris did,
Those lesser beauties of the name they share,
No treasure like his face their veils have hid.
His locks the deepest midnight color shone,
And sunbeams would dislodge a golden crown
No orchid wears, it was for him alone;
And when they're kissed they make a different sound.
The nodding sway of violets in a breeze
Is not the way it bobbed when we would play.
A larkspur, when I kiss it, doesn't cleave
And cling upon my cheeks on humid days.
But larkspurs now are all I have to keep;
A larkspur and the anodyne of sleep.
A place for my poems 