Green-eyed Monster

The sweetness of it hard to bear 
Neither far in dark nor too fair, 
 Much like the mignionet: 
Filling me in a hapless discontent, 
For my wish to alter, will to be bent, 
 In quick succession they fret.

And you would want it to suppose 
as avenging the way it rose, 
 When I gave it not a shower 
nor to be held capture in its scent, 
Never to hold myself discontent 
 With my own pretty flower.

Like an inevitable acorn from a tree 
 Wanting to grow, waiting to be, 
 The green-eyed monsters are: 
Sweet with love, and nothing to find 
except the flower in their own mind, 
 So hard to pacify, so rare.