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Good bye, my pretty flowering Bean, that with a right good will,
O'er casement, arch and trellis went climbing, climbing still,
Till the stern destroyer marked thee, and in his bitter ire,
Quenched out thy many scarlet spikes that glowed like living fire.

Pale, pale Snowberry, all is gone; I would it were not so,
Methinks the Woodbine near thee hath felt a lighter woe;
Lean, lean upon her sheltering arm, thy latest pang to take,
And yield to autumn's stormy will, till happier seasons wake.

Coarse Marigold, in days of yore, I scorned thy tawny face,
But since my plants are frail and few, I've gave thee welcome place.
And thou, tall London-pride! my son from weeds preserved thy stem,
And, for his sake, I sigh to see thy fallen diadem.