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.