Here they once tended the camellias;
Now all the camellias are deceased,
Choked by the fresh flora that flourishes
In this broken purposed infirmary
For tender flowers consumed by the years.
The red, remembered as a period piece,
The white, no longer abed, still waiting
For the nurseryman’s nurturing hand.
Now never beheld through the shivered panes,
Les dames were offered no kindly mercy.
Today, the house is enclosed by nature
Before it too will return to the earth,
Reconciled with its red and white patients.
