Classic Poem

These are yours: the marigolds,
Bitter-scented, good to see;
Four o'clock and lavender,
Rose and rosemary;

The spiderwort I found afield,
The foxglove from the hill, —
They bloom in tended plots for you,
Though wild bees haunt them still.

Yours, the proud flowers along the paths,
The shy flowers by the wall —
But mine, mine the gray-leaved verbena
That has never bloomed at all.