She brought you roses red as wine.
They shone like flames in pearls of dew
Against those chamomiles of mine
That were too shy to look at you.

You would admire the gift she made
And bought a crystal vase for it
While my humble present laid
Losing petals in the heat.

But her roses wilted soon
While the chamomiles would wait.
Her perfect flowers died at noon
And mine would stay until it’s late.

Her perfect love of roses pricked
And either scratched your heart or arm.
Take these chamomiles I’ve picked,
They’ll never do you any harm.