Artificial Flower

I am beautiful, always beautiful. Every time you encounter me, I am in full opening. The rain is a shower; the wind gets from me Nothing. My cloth and plastic body can weathers all. Don’t be so heavy on me to further require that I be fragrant, For scents have given way to strength. I move to a solitary and cramped room in the winter. It is surrounded by tall walls, painted with Cranes and pines. Outside the window, Trees leave their bones in the heavy snow, While I manage to keep a copy of spring. Powder and knives do no more good to me. I need little care. A simple scrub is enough, whenever. I will get refreshed at once, and be Almost as bright and beautiful as before. My beauty endures but still has an end. I am sad. Sunshine and dust steal my radiance. I become weak and brittle, and suffer a break in a good day. Before long, I am driven into a dump—my fate; and ever I am not worth a look or line of sympathy.