In leaving, I, a flower be,
But others always leaving me
When Herbert's scent be sweet or sour
Was smelled by others past his hour.
And so will time then sniff my scent
Or keep it well in pages pent?
These words that I so freely give
When not accepted, fail to live.
What then is said of words unshared,
If like a scent of flowers snared?
In hands, when then refused to smell,
The words succeed in rotting well.
Were words then rotten from the start
If others thought them not so smart?
And as for me, therefore will I
Then rotting and defeated lie?
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