To A Cyclamen

I COME to visit thee agen,
My little flowerless cyclamen;
To touch the hand, almost to press,
That cheer-d thee in thy loneliness.
What could thy careful guardian find
Of thee in form, of me in mind,
What is there in us rich or rare,
To make us claim a moment-s care?
Unworthy to be so carest,
We are but withering leaves at best.