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A shriveled bloom without scent

Overlooked in a book I see;

My spirit's by one way or another previously dashing

What's more, loads up with a peculiar reverie.Where did it blossom? In which spring? When?

Did it blossom long? Who picked it at that point?

By more abnormal's hand or by a companion?

Who put it here and to what end?In memory of delicate trysting

Or then again else of portentous splitting day?

Or then again else maybe a solitary walk thoughtful

In quiet fields and lush shade?Do he she despite everything live, I wonder?

Also, where presently is their little alcove?

Or on the other hand have they blurred, lost their radiance,

Like this little blossom right now?