I’ve no flowers to offer, love—
None but my buried, grubby bulbs
Which each day you freely water,
Arrange, and so proudly display.
I’ve no chocolate for you, love—
None darker than your eyes and hair,
The sweetness of your aftertaste
Upon my so unworthy lips.
And I’ve no card for you, my love,
For you to read and to discard.
Read this, read me, let me read you—
But discard each other? Never!
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