Whither, fair flower.
Though once thou stood in awe,
And kissed the sky;
Kiss thy blossoms goodbye,
With the final breath thou draw.

A lily’s days are numbered,
Though it counts them not go by.
Each passing night,
Brings morning light,
To lead its ending nigh.

Yet pompous plants were made,
Without understanding or wit.
To live till they die,
To service the eye,
So having no mind is quite fit.

Yet thou hast a mind, O daughter of man,
And smother it for beauty’s sake.
Dressed in glamorous clothes,
To appear as a rose,
To thy sense will thee never awake?

How dim thou art!
As a mind made without,
Tis indeed no excuse!
For thee, dullish brutes,
Art blind to the day as a sprout.