On wastes of wishful thought

Your memory, the flower that I tend,
my insubstantial relic of desire,
grows pale despite the time of mind I spend
to bring alive a remnant of your fire.
A second’s thought, a minute or an hour,
an age of recall: you are absent still.
Too much of this has made my mind run sour
and no philosophy can cure my ill
for I am lost in wastes of wishful thought.
Without a prayer to mend a withered rose
the heavy weight of learning comes to naught;
the world is wearier than I supposed.
Of glorious Creation who can boast
it brings us love? It kills what we love most.