The most precious blossom was gifted me, 

One much like the evening’s golden silk; 

The intertwining and outspread of thee 

Burst and bled away: stolen heaven’s milk. 

How lush and victorious it did bear 

The most evergreen of all foliage— 

Oh how dull, but so crisp, the borders; there 

Lies no animosity on an edge. 

The veins: so delicate!  The curves: so soft! 

To compare myself, I am a disease, 

One that would tarnish the littlest loft 

Like a sickle to the harvest with ease. 

    And yet this treasure I was deemed worthy— 

    “It is to you, I give this to”—dearly.