To a Plant

The bee-loved foxgloves could not charm the mead -

geraniums their full-lipped petals fend

against first frosts - bright roses not ascend

the cottage arbours - if they did not feed;

the peonies' brief buddings won't succeed,

nor irises, round the borders, with them blend -

yet there are plants I have not need to tend,

and you - my friend - are such a one indeed.

Whether the soil is damp or parched from drought -

like spring you're always fresh - my kindred fellow;

if no sun's near, your stems won't seek it out;

your leaves shall never wilt, grow sere or yellow,

but ever crown the garden - standing stout

through all four seasons - leaves no autumns mellow.