‘Midst a wet, dreary trek ‘cross York country,
Bearing Boreal winds and aching throes,
‘Countered I, ‘pon her ancient territ’ry,
Th’ apless Alba, Gloucester’s blanchéd rose.
Besieged, appeared she, by Lancaster’s knights—
Her buddings, by greenflies and mites, devoured,
Stem, with cankers, marred; leaves, rusted with blight—
Without relief, felled by the next shower,
By chivalric duty thusly compelled,
Deliver’s this errant, her ladyship,
Under roof, his potted garden to dwell,
‘Til vernal spring rescinds this stewardship.
Lady, forgive our enclosed, paltry earth,
But take respite, take comfort, by our worth.
G. E. Hernandez