Hyacinths
Two flowers, dear - one white, one mauve,
and one is in, one out of, love:
two aspects of a morphing maid
who my love welcomed, then betrayed.
The hyacinth’s a lovely thing,
and I may well its praises sing!
Its meaning changes with its hue.
It puts me, dear, in mind of you.
This white one is, I must confess,
the very soul of loveliness.
And who could think such simple charm
could ever dole out so much harm!
To never meet the darker one
is what I’d planned, but I was wrong.
Too innocent, I never guessed
both mauve and white lived in one breast!
So, I will send you, dear, these flowers
which, like your love, will die in hours.
But while they live, they’re yours to keep:
and as you sow, so may you reap.
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