You. You dwell in this old house
Of spent nights and twice-told tales.
You buried beauty with a fine funeral,
Such sad tidings the earth wails.
The fount that roused your hair and cheek
Is now abandoned, dry and bleak.
The wine of the lovely now matured
has vintage flavor, but the punch is weak.

You. You share with me this garden.
We're richer far than these green trees.
In a field of wheat the swaying stalk
Does well without a flowery frock.
After spring's abundant showers,
This summer refuge needs no rain.
Out of your open book of beauty
You are an abridged version.

Don't frown on spring and don't forget
The secrets lurking in the fruit.
The musk in empty bottles will
still smell of fragrant days.