A FREQUENT THOUGHT
I WENT to gather roses, but could not find a flower,
I sought my orchard closes, but all the fruit was sour.
A cold wind nips my posies, when comes the blossom-hour?
Ah, my grief!
The wind is blowing chilly, when will the fruit be riper?
My feet dance willy-nilly, but who's to pay the piper?
I stooped to pluck a lily, my fingers met a viper!
What relief?