The love that has no memories and no hope,
Is like the weed that blossoms for an hour;
That putting forth its one imperfect flower,
Straightway doth languish. It can neither cope
With the strong tempest, nor with the mild power
Of mellow sunlight, nor with the soft shower.
It has no root in nature, and it dies,
Leaving no fragrance and no fruit behind;
And none lament it, nor return to find
Its bed when, beaten low, it bruisèd lies:
Unfriended, and forsaken of its kind,
It blows about, at mercy of the wind.