His was the direction
Towards which I polarized;
And with every morning
That I saw the flowers at the door
Hope again flashed before me,
Ready to be revised.
But he did not know
Of whose attention my thoughts were;
He did not care, I fear,
That I let the flowers wither.
For if he had, he would have stopped
And prepared for the worst, yet I knew
That his gestures were of kind regard
That only his sense brought me his gift;
For, if he had been his heart's slave,
I know, he would have called more often.
And, among the wildflowers he'd leave,
There would have been a more gentle sprout,
But was there? No, I saw each kind of petal
Apart from one, that of a rose.