I COME to visit thee agen,
My little flowerless cyclamen;
To touch the hand, almost to press,
That cheer’d thee in thy loneliness.
What could thy careful guardian find
Of thee in form, of me in mind,
What is there in us rich or rare,
To make us claim a moment’s care?
Unworthy to be so carest,
We are but withering leaves at best.
Walter Savage Landor
