Poor lady in the lush reeds,

Drifting like a common recyclable,

Mouth a slack O! 

What good can her gilded shroud perform now. 

 

Someone has killed this young maid’s wit,

Snapped her mind like a branch underfoot.

Hysteria adored, then punished. 

 

But, at least, her fate is to float

amongst the flowers. Look! 

She has her rosemary, her panises, 

A sprig of fennel, a bouquet of columbines,

Daisies, and, of course, rue.

 

And she blooms before us 

In a gilded frame

Confined in our endless reverie.  

 

Pray you, love, remember. 

There is madness for you,

And madness for me. 

It refuses to wither away.