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.
About the Creator
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