To A Sad Lady Poem by William B. Watterson

I peered into the garden of her mind,
And growing there I found a flower so rare
That to describe a beauty of its kind
Seemed task too great. Yet as I saw it there,
At once I knew it was an image born
Of youthful hope. But bitter, poisoning cold
Had pierced the root, and former dewy charms
Were icy droplets in the petals’ folds.
I sensed frustration in her cruel jokes
And in the way she put us all to scorn,
And through pretenses her veiled sorrow spoke,
So we all knew she rued she had been born.
A once fair blossom chilled by unknown power
Lay frozen in its sadly twisted bower.