With all before me beauty, show, and pride.
Ah! why did Nature shoot me thus to light,
A thing unfit for use—unfit for sight;
Less like her work than like a piece of Art,
Whirled out and trimmed—exact in every part?
Unlike the graceful shrub, and flexible vine,
No fruit—no branch—nor leaf, nor bud, is mine.
No singing bird, nor butterfly, nor bee
Will come to cheer, caress, or flatter me.
No beauteous flower adorns my humble head,