Flowers grow unchecked out here, and never are admired.
They never grace the hand of anxious beau, Nor give their scent mingled with the sweat from his palms, to love, or To his lover, heaven-sent. They grow wild, and die wild, Untamed, unwanted actors of Freedom and romance mild. But when winter comes, they freeze And die alone beneath the cold. Their cousins, grown in pristine peat, Grace the shop across the street. They're cared for, tamed, and never knew The place where sweetest breezes blew.