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.