Pale, delicate flower, when your beauty is gone,
Ye are left here deserted to perish alone,
Upon the cold ground your faded forms lie,
Unheeded, neglected, to wither and die.
Have ye not one mourner, not even the bee,
That gathered rich stores of sweet honey from thee?
And where is that gaudy, that gay butterfly,
And the sweet humming bird, have they left thee to die?......
Ann Stuart Thompson
Again, shot previously and I am just now getting around to processing it......so goes the story of my life.
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