A Poem by Thomas Hardy
In the bedchamber window, near the glass,
Stood the little flower in the little vase,
For a whole fortnight,
And withered for lack of watering
To a skeleton mere — a mummied thing.
But it was not much, mid a world of teen,
That a flower should waste in a nook unseen!
One needed no thought to ascertain
How it happened; that when she went in the rain
To return here not,
She was mindless what
She had left here to perish. — Ah, well: for an hour
I wished I had not found the flower!
Yet it was not much. And she never had known
Of the flower’s fate; nor it of her own.