Alas, the beauteous garden fair,
In summer's blaze, met its despair.
Once vibrant blooms, now memories pale,
A sight that maketh my heart wail.
Ere I beheld, I turned away,
Such grievous state, what can I say?
Mine eyes did fill with sorrow's stream,
As if in this was a tragic dream.
Beauty, they say, rests in the eye,
Yet here it fades, I can't deny,
Garden lost, its youthful grace,
A desert's touch, in this space.
The gardener, he, his heart did take,
From this abode, his leave did make.
Even gentle souls, weary do grow,
And bid farewell, when winds do blow.
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